Find your next favorite read
6 stories found
Her skin tasted of salt and expensive gin, a combination that made my mouth water like a steak hitting a white-hot skillet.
He told me to stop posing like a woman with a mortgage and start breathing like someone who had just committed a crime.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my silk trousers, dragging the fabric down just enough to expose the scar from my appendectomy.
I could feel the vibration of the tracks through her hip bones, a steady thrumming that made every slide of my hand feel like a confession.
The carpet was a violent swirl of hospitality-grade maroon, the kind designed to hide stains and secrets with equal efficiency.
The flour on my palms left white handprints on his dark trousers, a literal trail of my own undoing.