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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.
She was vibrating at a frequency that would have shattered a lesser man, a high, sharp C-sharp that tasted like lightning.
His hand was a hot, calloused weight against my lower back, a direct violation of the three-foot rule we’d both signed off on.
The cedar bark was rough against her shoulder blades, and the air up here was too thin to sustain the way we were breathing.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my compression leggings, and for a second, the high-altitude air actually felt thin enough to vanish.