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She tasted like a dirty martini and bad intentions, a combination that usually ends in a hangover or a very specific kind of bruise.
His hand was a hot weight on my lower back, right where the sacrum meets the spine, grounding me even as my pulse began to fray.
She looked at me with the kind of focus usually reserved for a contract line-item, then she let the elevator door close.
I didn’t want to be the woman who gets unraveled by a consultant in a linen shirt, yet here I am, typing this.
The silence in this room is a character you didn't cast, but it’s the one stealing every single scene we have together.
I watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the thick cord of muscle straining against a work-shirt that had seen better decades.
The steam didn't obscure her; it acted like a soft-focus lens on a camera I wasn't supposed to be operating.
The way your psoas must be tightening as you reach for that top shelf, a line of tension running from your inner thigh right up into your core, it’s a geometry I can’t stop calculating.
The dust was everywhere, a fine silt that turned our sweat into a kind of gritty lubricant, making every touch feel prehistoric.
The way her knees pressed against the velvet of the seat, she looked like a prayer someone forgot to finish saying.
I watched the sweat track a path between your breasts like a river cutting through a valley I hadn't yet mapped.
"You looked at that glass of Petit Verdot like you were trying to find a reason to sue the winemaker, then drank it anyway."