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I’m fifty-one, and I’ve written enough sex scenes to populate a small town, but doing it on a mahogany floor is a different plot twist.
I checked his neck for the plastic badge, a nervous tic of an old habit, wondering if the years had softened the sharp line of his collarbone.
I felt the callus on his thumb catch against my inner thigh, a rough, familiar friction that made my vision blur.
Julian didn’t look at me like a friend. He looked at me like a terrain map he was planning to occupy by morning.
The scaffolding groaned beneath us, a rusted skeleton articulating our shared sins against the backdrop of a cold, indifferent New England sky.
The rain in Paris doesn't fall; it colonizes, turning the limestone gray and making the humidity feel like a second, heavier skin.
He watched the way the silk fought against the curve of her hip, a tactical disadvantage he was more than happy to exploit.
His thumb hooked into her lace, the tension between them snapping like a high-tension wire in a Santa Ana wind.
The taste of her anger was exactly like a burnt roux—bitter, clinging to the back of my throat, impossible to scrape away.
I watched the way his thumb traced the spine of that first edition, a slow, calloused drag that made my own skin prickle.