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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.