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!["You're Holding Your Glass Like a Shield"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you're-holding-your-glass-like-a-shield"-65-cover-1782734449998.jpg)
I remember the way the condensation from her gin glass tracked a slow, clear line through the fine dust on her knuckles.
His hand on my neck felt like a cast-iron skillet—unyielding, retaining a heat that scorched long after the flame went out.
He tasted like expensive gin and the sort of reckless ambition that only survives in basement clubs after two in the morning.
I’m recording this because if I die of hypothermia or a bad decision, I want the record to show he was incredibly hot.
Reid’s thumb traced the line of my sports bra, his skin smelling of pine needles and the kind of sweat that doesn't need an apology.
My skin was a map of places I hadn’t given him permission to visit yet, but the thin mountain air was a hell of a drug.
Her spine had this perfect, lateral curve as she reached for the railing, a mobilization of the thoracic vertebrae that made my own breath hitch.
I watch the way your collarbone catches the city light, a sharp, elegant line that looks like a challenge I haven’t been assigned yet.
A single glance across the salt-sprayed deck was enough to undo years of carefully constructed composure. Some fires simply refuse to be contained.
A chance encounter amidst the rolling hills of Napa turns a corporate retreat into a high-stakes game of seduction and wit.