Find your next favorite read
12 stories found
The friction of his thumb against my clitoris is rhythmic, a metronome keeping time against the howling wind outside.
I’m recording this because if I die of hypothermia or a bad decision, I want the record to show he was incredibly hot.
!["I Thought You Said You Could Handle a Little Ice."](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i-thought-you-said-you-could-handle-a-little-ice."-361-cover-1780473650913.jpg)
The condensation on my phone screen blurred his name, but I didn't need to see it to know the weight of his words.
He looked at me like a breach of contract I couldn't litigate my way out of, all sawdust and winter wind.
Your thumb brushes the pulse point at my wrist, and suddenly the breath I’ve spent a decade mastering simply deserts me.
I had spent a decade teaching students that 'show, don't tell' was the ultimate commandment, but as his tongue traced the architectural line of my hip, I realized I had never understood the weight of a physical verb.
The fireplace roared like a dying engine while we stripped away the corporate armor, leaving only the raw, shivering truth of it.
He tastes like the coffee we drank an hour ago and the cold air he brought in from the porch, sharp and grounding.
The snow was piling up against the cedar siding like a debt I had no intention of ever paying back.
I am tracing the blue-black ink of the runes on your forearm and wondering if the ROI on this mistake is worth the fallout.
The cabin is shivering under the drifts, but inside, the air is thick enough to spread on toast, heavy with the scent of pine and bad intentions.
Locked away by a blizzard and a decade of secrets, they finally discover that some walls are meant to be breached.