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I told myself I was assessing the range of motion in your glenohumeral joint, but I was actually memorizing the heat of your skin.
The silk of her dress was thinner than I expected, barely a barrier between my calloused palm and the heat of her hip.
I can feel the phantom weight of your hand on my hip while I’m standing at the podium, a ghost-press that ruins my posture.
The yacht hummed beneath our feet like a living thing, a white fiberglass cage that felt smaller with every mile we put between us and the coast.
The smell of her hair was exactly the same, a mix of expensive salon products and the faint, metallic bite of lighter fluid.
Her skin tasted like the sea, which was a lie, because we were in the middle of the Tuscan hills, miles from any coast.
She didn’t look like a painting; she looked like the person the painter was trying to impress before he gave up and started drinking.
His thumb was tracing the line where my stocking ended and my thigh began, a slow, deliberate trespass that ruined my focus.
The jazz is a jagged thing tonight, all elbows and sour notes, but you are steady as a cast-iron skillet.
The friction of his thumb against my clitoris is rhythmic, a metronome keeping time against the howling wind outside.
The heat of the stove was nothing compared to the way his hand felt against the small of my back, heavy as a sidearm and just as dangerous.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my shorts, dragging the denim down just enough to expose the white line of my hip bone.