The Fever of Wisteria in Paris

The French afternoon air is cool, biting at my exposed neck before the heavy wool of my trench coat settles back into place. But I am not cold; a flush has been rising in my chest since he leaned over to fix the hem of that silver skirt, his fingers lingering just a second too long against my skin where it meets the fabric.

The wisteria bouquet feels heavy and damp in my hand, releasing a cloying sweetness that competes with the scent of ozone from the city. I lift them closer, breathing deep to drown out the noise of traffic below. My pulse hammers against my throat—a frantic rhythm matching the beat of his footsteps behind me on the pavement.

He hasn't touched me yet today, but the heat radiates between us like a physical tether. The silver fabric clings coolly and slick against my thighs with every step I take toward him, grounding me in this moment where time dissolves into nothing but skin temperature and desire.

Editor: Pulse