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He had a smudge of lithium grease behind his ear that I wanted to lick off more than I wanted the champagne.
You stood there like a goddamn monument to my own poor decisions, dripping wet and holding a stolen bottle of Barolo.
The salt was everywhere—in the air, on the railing, and eventually, dried in white tracks against the slope of her inner thigh.
A single glance across the salt-sprayed deck was enough to undo years of carefully constructed composure. Some fires simply refuse to be contained.