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She didn't look like a woman who waited for things, but there she was, dissecting a lemon peel with surgical focus.
The wine wasn't the catalyst; it was the way Julian looked at Ben looking at me, a silent permission for the world to tilt.
The leather across my thighs felt like a closing argument I wasn’t prepared to refute, sharp and final.
The sound of the shutter is a tiny guillotine, and every time it drops, I lose another piece of my professional composure.
The grease on her knuckles was the color of a wet asphalt road in Memphis, and I wanted to lick it clean.
You’re pressing me back against the mahogany shelving, and for a second, I’m terrified the first editions won't be the only things bruised tonight.
The Amtrak coffee tasted like a wet wool blanket, but you were looking at my mouth like it was the only thing on the menu.