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The air in Flagstaff was too thin for the secrets I was trying to keep, every breath dragging the scent of pine and his skin deep into my lungs.
The wind is screaming off the ridgeline like a jet engine, but all I can hear is her breath hitching against my neck.
I watched the sweat track a slow, glistening line down the canyon of your chest, and I hated you for breathing so easily.
She leaned against the weight bench, her skin shimmering with a fine mist of sweat that looked like a high-budget lighting rig.
The friction of his thumb against my clitoris is rhythmic, a metronome keeping time against the howling wind outside.
The air at nine thousand feet tastes like cold iron and pine needles, but his skin tasted like salt and expensive bourbon.
My skin was a map of places I hadn’t given him permission to visit yet, but the thin mountain air was a hell of a drug.
He watched the way the compression fabric of her leggings fought against the curve of her hip, a silent, high-tension drama.
The cedar bark was rough against her shoulder blades, and the air up here was too thin to sustain the way we were breathing.
The snow was piling up against the cedar siding like a debt I had no intention of ever paying back.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my compression leggings, and for a second, the high-altitude air actually felt thin enough to vanish.
The way his thumb hooked into his belt loop was more of a geographic landmark than anything I'd seen in the Alps.