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You are standing by the punch bowl like a martyr waiting for a stake, and frankly, the martyrdom is making me incredibly wet.
The silk of her dress was thinner than I expected, barely a barrier between my calloused palm and the heat of her hip.
The way her knees pressed against the velvet of the seat, she looked like a prayer someone forgot to finish saying.
She held the steel blades against the vine with the same practiced indifference she used to strike lines from my copy.
He didn't just play the bass; he wrestled it, his thighs bracketed around the curve of the wood like he was trying to keep it from bolting.
He had her pinned against the cool, damp concrete of the fermentation vat, the smell of yeast and heavy fruit thick enough to choke on.
The ice in her cup had melted into a flat, gray slurry, but she kept stirring it with a plastic straw, looking at me like I was a problem she was looking forward to solving.
The condensation on her gin and tonic was the only thing in the five-thousand-dollar-a-night suite that wasn't performing for a jury.
Julian watched me over the rim of his glass with the clinical detachment of a surgeon deciding where to make the first incision.
I have taught three hundred students that tension requires a delayed gratification, but you are a master of the cruelest syllabus I have ever encountered.
My heels were sinking into the synthetic turf, and Julian was looking at me like I was a layover he didn't mind extending.
The neck of the Gibson felt like a stranger's hand, cold and unyielding, while she stood by the oak vats and watched him bleed through a ballad.