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Julian’s hand on the small of my back wasn’t a gesture of support; it was a territorial claim written in heat and wool.
The silk of my slip was a joke against the callouses on your palms, a thin blue line between what I’m supposed to be and what you’re making me.
I have taught three hundred students that tension requires a delayed gratification, but you are a master of the cruelest syllabus I have ever encountered.
You didn’t just want my obedience; you wanted the specific way my breath caught when the leather met the back of my thighs.
My skin feels like it’s been sandpapered by salt and expensive linen, a raw, thrumming reminder of what we did near the service elevator.