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The California Zephyr has this way of making you feel like the laws of physics—and morality—don't apply once you hit the Nevada border.
He watched the way the compression fabric of her leggings fought against the curve of her hip, a silent, high-tension drama.
The way she looked at me through the viewfinder wasn't just about focal length; it felt like she was cataloging my nervous system.
Her skin was coated in that fine, glittery festival dust that gets into everything—your lungs, your gear, your memories.
Your thumb is currently tracing the seam of my stockings under this table, and I am quite certain the Countess is watching.
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.
The bass from the main stage is a physical assault, a low-frequency hum that settles in my molars and vibrates the gin.
He didn't touch my hand so much as he redefined the space where my skin ended and the flour began.
I’ve spent half my life in places where a wrong move meant a body bag, yet here I am, worried about your heels.
The compartment smelled of rain-slicked wool and the kind of expensive gin that tastes like you’re licking a primary-growth pine forest.