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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.