The Humidity Between Us

My pulse is a frantic drum against my ribs—thump-thump, thump-thump. I can feel the mist from the waterfall clinging to my skin like silk, but it’s nothing compared to the heat radiating off him as he steps closer.
He doesn't touch me yet, and that's the torture of it. My breath hitches; a sharp intake that tastes of damp moss and old secrets. I look up at him through lowered lashes, my heart skipping beats like a scratched record. The city—the deadlines, the gray concrete, the noise—is miles away now, drowned out by the roar of falling water.
I shift slightly in these denim shorts, feeling the friction against my thighs and an electric current humming beneath my surface. My chest rises and falls rapidly under this thin white cotton tank top; I wonder if he can see it? If he knows that every time our eyes lock, a thousand tiny needles of pleasure spark across my scalp?
He smiles—just barely—and suddenly the world narrows down to just us two in this green sanctuary. My pupils dilate. A sudden flush creeps up from my collarbone to my cheeks. I want him to break the distance; I want the crash of his touch like a wave hitting shore.
I’m not just breathing anymore—I’m inhaling *him*. And as he finally reaches out, fingers grazing my waist with impossible lightness, my heart doesn't just beat—it screams.

Editor: Heartbeat Monitor