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You are standing by the punch bowl like a martyr waiting for a stake, and frankly, the martyrdom is making me incredibly wet.
His hand was already moving under the hem of my borrowed robe, finding the wet heat of me with a terrifying, practiced accuracy.
He was vibrating with the kind of repressed energy you usually only see in a junior associate who’s just realized they missed a filing deadline.
The leather across my thighs felt like a closing argument I wasn’t prepared to refute, sharp and final.
Her heels clicked against the parquetry with the rhythmic, punishing precision of a chef's knife hitting a walnut board in a busy service.
He tasted like cold rain and the expensive, botanical gin he knew I kept behind the crystal decanters for exactly this kind of disaster.
He leaned in close enough that I could smell the expensive peat of his scotch and the cheap arrogance of his firm.