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The way you looked at me wasn't romantic; it was an audit, a line-by-line verification of everything I’d spent ten years trying to redact.
I told myself I was assessing the range of motion in your glenohumeral joint, but I was actually memorizing the heat of your skin.
The yacht hummed beneath our feet like a living thing, a white fiberglass cage that felt smaller with every mile we put between us and the coast.
Her skin was that perfect, translucent white of a blanched almond, and just as firm when I pressed my thumb into the soft meat of her hip.
The linen of my sundress was scratchy against my sunburn, but his hand was rougher, catching on the fabric like a burr.
He tasted of brined olives and the sharp, citric heat of the galley, his thumbs pinning my wrists against the cold stainless steel.
Her spine had this perfect, lateral curve as she reached for the railing, a mobilization of the thoracic vertebrae that made my own breath hitch.
His hand was heavy on the small of my back, a grounding weight that felt less like an invitation and more like an anchor.