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The humidity in the ballroom was a physical weight, pressing the scent of expensive gin and industrial floor wax into the back of his throat.
My pulse was a frantic, irregular rhythm in my neck, a physiological betrayal of the clinical indifference I’d spent six years perfecting.
The leather of my raptor mask smelled of tanning oils and the salt of my own breath, trapped against my lips.
The mask was meant to conceal our identities, but it actually just amplified the hunger I’d been repressing for three solid months.
The lace of your mask was digging into your temple, a minor penance for the way you were looking at my throat.
He tastes like the first press of a cane harvest, raw and heavy with the promise of something that could burn.
He tasted like the first humid press of a New Orleans July, thick with the promise of a storm that never breaks.
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.