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Her skin tasted like the salt-air of the Gulf and the expensive, cloying sugar of a violet-scented macaron.
I watched your throat work as you swallowed that lie, the tendon jumping under your skin like a trapped bird.
Her skin tasted of salt and expensive gin, a combination that made my mouth water like a steak hitting a white-hot skillet.
The jazz is a jagged thing tonight, all elbows and sour notes, but you are steady as a cast-iron skillet.
His hand on my neck felt like a cast-iron skillet—unyielding, retaining a heat that scorched long after the flame went out.
The air was the texture of a heavy cream reduction, thick enough to coat the back of a spoon and tasting of bourbon and brass.
The rain was coming down in sheets of gray iron, blurring the world outside until there was nothing left but the two of them and the smell of old paper.