Find your next favorite read
7 stories found
The leather of my raptor mask smelled of tanning oils and the salt of my own breath, trapped against my lips.
I watched the flour settle in the fine hairs of your forearms, a dusting of white against skin the color of toasted cedar.
He tasted like expensive bourbon and the kind of trouble that leaves you with a permanent kink in your lower back.
The air in the gallery was that specific brand of recycled desert heat, the kind that smells like expensive ozone and desperate ambition.
!["I Think We're Past the Point of Professional Courtesy"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i-think-we're-past-the-point-of-professional-courtesy"-747-cover-1776499259188.jpg)
The fluorescent hum of the Acela lavatory flickered against the salt-crusted window while her hand white-knuckled the plastic sink-edge, drowning out the conductor’s announcement.
Your thumb is currently tracing the seam of my stockings under this table, and I am quite certain the Countess is watching.
!["Keep Your Eyes on the Knife"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"keep-your-eyes-on-the-knife"-474-cover-1775998845624.jpg)
He tasted like the last bit of crusty bread used to swipe a plate of debris—salt, fat, and the ghost of a good red wine.