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His hand was doing things to my composure that a three-year non-compete clause could never justify, especially with his wife ten feet away.
Your mouth tasted like the heavy, iron-rich bottom of a glass of Petit Verdot, and I was already drunk on the proximity.
He had a smudge of lithium grease behind his ear that I wanted to lick off more than I wanted the champagne.
She looked at me across the crowded alumni tent, her smile a footnote to a story we hadn’t finished writing ten years ago.
The condensation on the window mirrored the sweat cooling on her shoulder, a map of everywhere we hadn't meant to go.
You were the only thing in that humidity that didn't feel like a lie, even though I knew your skin was a curated illusion.
The salt didn’t just sit on his skin; it felt like it was trying to cure him, like a piece of country ham hanging in a smokehouse.
Her back was arched against the bathroom door, and for a second, the only sound was the radiator hissing like a disgruntled extra.
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The air in the cellar was thick, a heavy blanket of damp earth and French oak that made the high-altitude dryness of my real life feel like a hallucination.