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Your mouth tasted like the heavy, iron-rich bottom of a glass of Petit Verdot, and I was already drunk on the proximity.
She’s balanced on the rolling ladder like a mountain goat in silk, and I’m ninety percent sure she’s not wearing underwear.
The jazz is a jagged thing tonight, all elbows and sour notes, but you are steady as a cast-iron skillet.
He didn’t look at the dough. He looked at me, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line through the flour on the marble.
His thumb was hooked in the waistband of her trousers, pulling the fabric taut against the swell of her hip like a resistance band.