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He held the stem of the glass like a throat, his thumb tracing the rim with a precision that made her lungs feel suddenly too small for her chest.
I didn’t want to be the woman who gets unraveled by a consultant in a linen shirt, yet here I am, typing this.
Malachi’s thumb was stained purple, the juice of the grape looking too much like a bruise as he pressed it against the hollow of my throat.
She held the steel blades against the vine with the same practiced indifference she used to strike lines from my copy.
Her spine had that neutral, dangerous curve of a loaded spring, and the way her husband watched me watch her made the wine in my throat turn to liquid lead.
He gripped the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the frantic beat of her pulse against the vineyard’s humid twilight.
The condensation on the Chablis bottle was the only thing wetter than the look Claire was giving the estate manager.
The mahogany desk was cold against her thighs, a stark contrast to the internal temperature spike recorded at twenty-one hundred hours.
The leather across my thighs felt like a closing argument I wasn’t prepared to refute, sharp and final.
The way he gripped the stem of that Zinfandel glass made me want to be the glass, breakable and clear and desperate for his mouth.
Julian held the crystal over the guttering candle, his thumb tracing the rim as if he were checking a witness’s pulse for lies.
His thumb traced the line where my leggings met my waist, a deliberate, grounding pressure that made my breath hitch in my throat.