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36 stories found
Your neck is the color of bleached bone under the deck lights, and I can see the pulse there, erratic as a dying bird.
The way he looked at me wasn't a glance; it was a reconnaissance mission, and I was wide open for the taking.
His thumb was heavy, tracing the line of my jaw with the same brutal precision he used to score a loaf of sourdough.
The condensation on her glass is the only thing wetter than the silk shift she wore specifically to ruin my concentration.
His hand was doing things to my composure that a three-year non-compete clause could never justify, especially with his wife ten feet away.
The bass was so loud it didn't just hit my ears; it vibrated the spare change in my pocket and the teeth in my head.
Her skin tasted like the salt-air of the Gulf and the expensive, cloying sugar of a violet-scented macaron.
He tasted like a four-hundred-dollar bottle of Scotch and the kind of career-ending decision that looks spectacular in the right lighting.
I watched her thumb trace the rim of the glass, wondering if she knew that every slow, circular motion was making my throat go dry.
You look at me over the top of her head, your jaw tight as a bowstring, and I know I’m not supposed to be here.
The humidity in the Berkshires during August doesn’t just sit on you; it negotiates with your dignity until you’re both translucent.
The neck of the Gibson felt like a stranger's hand, cold and unyielding, while she stood by the oak vats and watched him bleed through a ballad.