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The silk of my slip was a joke against the callouses on your palms, a thin blue line between what I’m supposed to be and what you’re making me.
You are standing by the punch bowl like a martyr waiting for a stake, and frankly, the martyrdom is making me incredibly wet.
The way she unzips that dress is a procedural nightmare, a slow-motion violation of every ethics seminar I’ve sat through since the Bar.
She looked at me across the crowded alumni tent, her smile a footnote to a story we hadn’t finished writing ten years ago.
He looked at her and felt the same bone-deep rattle you get when you’re too close to a controlled detonation.
Her skin was that perfect, translucent white of a blanched almond, and just as firm when I pressed my thumb into the soft meat of her hip.
!["You're Going to Get Mud on That Silk"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you're-going-to-get-mud-on-that-silk"-425-cover-1780128052025.jpg)
Her skin tasted like expensive gin and the kind of rain that only falls when you’re somewhere you don't belong.