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I watched the sweat track a slow, glistening line down the canyon of your chest, and I hated you for breathing so easily.
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 air in the club didn’t just vibrate with the bass; it felt like a weighted blanket pressing against my solar plexus.
The California Zephyr has this way of making you feel like the laws of physics—and morality—don't apply once you hit the Nevada border.
The train took a curve near Bridgeport, and her knee didn't just brush mine; it lingered there, heavy and deliberate, a silent thesis statement.
The flour was everywhere, a fine white dust coating the dark wood of the island and the sweat-slicked curve of her inner thigh.
You tasted like the twenty-year Scotch you bought me and the panic of a missed deadline, sharp and entirely too expensive.