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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.
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.