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You have this way of holding a cocktail umbrella like it’s a lethal weapon, and frankly, I’m waiting for you to use it on me.
I watched the sweat track a path between your breasts like a river cutting through a valley I hadn't yet mapped.
You didn't look like a tourist; you looked like a breach in a perimeter I’d spent a decade and a half building.
I didn't need a savior or a soulmate; I needed someone who could look at a forty-five-year-old woman and see a feast instead of a fossil.
The condensation on her gin and tonic was the only thing in the five-thousand-dollar-a-night suite that wasn't performing for a jury.
Her skin was the color of a perfect pour of bourbon, and the rope against it looked like a structural error in a masterpiece.
I could feel the condensation from her glass dripping onto my thigh, a cold, sharp contrast to the way her thumb was tracing my hip.