Find your next favorite read
7 stories found
I watched your throat work as you swallowed that lie, the tendon jumping under your skin like a trapped bird.
His hand was on my hip, his thumb hooked into my belt loop like he was anchoring himself against a gale-force wind.
!["I've Been Wondering if You Still Had That Smart Mouth"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i've-been-wondering-if-you-still-had-that-smart-mouth"-409-cover-1782259256748.jpg)
She leaned back against the mahogany bar, the condensation from her gin and tonic dripping onto a wrist that hadn't aged a day.
The way he gripped the stem of that Zinfandel glass made me want to be the glass, breakable and clear and desperate for his mouth.
Your mouth on my neck felt like the low E string on my daddy’s old Gibson—thick, humming, and heavy enough to make the floorboards shudder.
He tasted like cold rain and the expensive, botanical gin he knew I kept behind the crystal decanters for exactly this kind of disaster.
The rain in Paris doesn't fall; it colonizes, turning the limestone gray and making the humidity feel like a second, heavier skin.