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His hands were seasoned—there’s no other word for it—heavy with a confidence that made my skin feel like it was humming.
I was supposed to be checking the histogram but all I could see was the way the sweat pooled in that little dip above her tailbone.
He tracked the line of her throat like a melody he’d been humming for a decade but finally found the words for.
The condensation on the tent wall was freezing into a map of stars, but her skin felt like a heatwave against my palms.
His thumb traced the line where my leggings met my waist, a deliberate, grounding pressure that made my breath hitch in my throat.
The condensation on the glass doesn’t just blur the view; it rewrites the physics of how I’m supposed to look at you.