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She smells like expensive paper and the kind of tequila that makes you forget your own zip code.
The city lights below looked like a scattered pile of gold nuggets in a miner's pan, but Sloane only had eyes for the way Dominic’s suit jacket pulled across his shoulders.
I can feel the exact moment the ice hit your tongue because my own mouth suddenly tastes like bitter gin and cold iron.
I watch the way your collarbone catches the city light, a sharp, elegant line that looks like a challenge I haven’t been assigned yet.
The city at three AM has the same hollow resonance as a hollow-body guitar played unplugged—all vibration and no projection.