Girls That Finish The Job
Girls That Finish The Job Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun bled honey-gold through the window, catching in the fine dust motes dancing around us like shy fireflies. His gaze was a physical warmth on my skin, a slow, simmering heat that started at my collarbone and traveled down my spine. I watched the steady rhythm of his breathing, the slight part of his lips as he took a slow, deliberate step closer, closing the charged space between us. The air itself grew thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and his faint, clean cologne, a fragrance that made my head feel light. My fingers, trembling slightly, itched to trace the strong line of his jaw, to feel the proof of his reality beneath my touch. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped me as his hand finally rose, his knuckles brushing a stray lock of hair from my cheek with an agonizing tenderness. That simple contact sent a cascade of shivers through my entire being, a silent earthquake of longing and anticipation. In the deep, stormy pools of his eyes, I saw my own desire reflected back at me, raw and unguarded. This was a precipice, a breath held forever between the fear of falling and the desperate need to leap. And in that suspended, silent moment, his quiet smile felt like a triumph, a promise of a beautiful, shared descent.
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