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I want to see if you taste like that bourbon you’ve been nursing, or if you’re just as sweet and dangerous as a peach soaked in moonshine.
Julian watched me over the rim of his glass with the clinical detachment of a surgeon deciding where to make the first incision.
The legal implications were clear, but the way his thumb traced the line of my jaw was an unarguable counter-brief.
The linen of my sundress was scratchy against my sunburn, but his hand was rougher, catching on the fabric like a burr.
!["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.
Her skin was the color of a perfect pour of bourbon, and the rope against it looked like a structural error in a masterpiece.
The rain is a rhythmic pounding against the glass but inside the only sound is the wet, heavy sliding of skin on skin.
!["You’re Not Wearing the Bracelet I Sent to Your Hotel"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you’re-not-wearing-the-bracelet-i-sent-to-your-hotel"-726-cover-1777536060331.jpg)
The bass from the main stage was vibrating the walls of the trailer, a rhythmic thud that matched the way my thumb was hovering over the send button.
The cooling wards in this place are a joke when you’re looking at me like I’m a cold beer after a July ruck.