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He pinned me against the mahogany, the smell of dust and old money mixing with the sharp, saline scent of my own arousal.
You looked like a headline I wasn’t allowed to run, all sharp angles and navy silk, standing by the library’s fireplace.
The mask was meant to conceal our identities, but it actually just amplified the hunger I’d been repressing for three solid months.
He tastes like the first press of a cane harvest, raw and heavy with the promise of something that could burn.
Her breath smelled like the eighty-dollar Pinot they were pouring downstairs, and her hand was already unzipping my fly with a reporter’s efficiency.