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The air in Flagstaff was too thin for the secrets I was trying to keep, every breath dragging the scent of pine and his skin deep into my lungs.
She was the high priestess of deprivation, and I was a man who lived and died by the grace of butter and bourbon.
The wind is screaming off the ridgeline like a jet engine, but all I can hear is her breath hitching against my neck.
I watched the sweat track a slow, glistening line down the canyon of your chest, and I hated you for breathing so easily.
You didn't breathe like the others; you didn't even sweat, despite the brutal elevation and the humid weight of the Berkshire pines.
Reid’s thumb traced the line of my sports bra, his skin smelling of pine needles and the kind of sweat that doesn't need an apology.
His hand on my hip was firm, less like a polite gesture and more like he was claiming a specific piece of real estate.
His hand was flat against the small of my back, right where the sacrum meets the spine, and he wasn't just checking his alignment.
The cedar planks were humming with the heat, and she stood there with that digital timer clicking against her thigh like a second heartbeat.
His hand was a heavy weight on my lower back, a physical lien on my composure that I had no intention of discharging.
He watched the way the compression fabric of her leggings fought against the curve of her hip, a silent, high-tension drama.
Subject exhibits 145 BPM heart rate. Skin is flushed, damp with perspiration, responding to manual stimulation with rhythmic pelvic thrusts.