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The air conditioning in the gallery hummed like a low-budget horror score, a cold, mechanical buzz that did nothing to chill the sweat pooling at the base of my spine.
Her skin was that perfect, translucent white of a blanched almond, and just as firm when I pressed my thumb into the soft meat of her hip.
The clasp snagged on the cuff of my jacket, a tiny silver anchor keeping us moored in a room full of people we both despised.
I was supposed to be checking the histogram but all I could see was the way the sweat pooled in that little dip above her tailbone.
My psoas muscle, usually the first thing to tighten under stress, felt like it was melting into the gallery floor.
I’m recording this because if I die of hypothermia or a bad decision, I want the record to show he was incredibly hot.
His hand is a heavy weight against my throat, not squeezing yet, just a binding clause I haven't figured out how to litigate.
The linen of my sundress was scratchy against my sunburn, but his hand was rougher, catching on the fabric like a burr.
He tracked the line of her throat like a melody he’d been humming for a decade but finally found the words for.
!["You're Going to Get Mud on That Silk"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you're-going-to-get-mud-on-that-silk"-425-cover-1780128052025.jpg)
Her skin tasted like expensive gin and the kind of rain that only falls when you’re somewhere you don't belong.
Her skin tasted like the first pinch of fleur de sel on a raw scallop—sharp, clean, and promising something rich underneath.
His thumb was hooked in the waistband of her trousers, pulling the fabric taut against the swell of her hip like a resistance band.