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His thumb hooked into the waistband of my shorts, dragging the denim down just enough to expose the white line of my hip bone.
The condensation on her glass was the only thing cooler than the look she gave me over the rim of that Zinfandel.
His thumb was tracing the ridge of my hip bone like he was following a contour line on a map he'd memorized.
He has these hands that look like they could build a house or tear one down, and right now, they’re wrapped around my wrists.
I am tracing the blue-black ink of the runes on your forearm and wondering if the ROI on this mistake is worth the fallout.
The way she moved under me had the same heavy, inevitable drag as a B3 organ through a Leslie speaker.
He smelled like the cold iron of the High Seat and the particular, ozone-heavy static that preceded a total collapse of the Sunder.