Girls That Finish The Job
Girls That Finish The Job Pic(s)
The evening light bled honey-gold through the window, catching the dust motes dancing around our quiet forms. His gaze was a physical weight, a warm caress that traced the line of my jaw before his fingers ever dared to follow. My breath hitched, a tiny, captured thing in the space between his exhale and my thundering heart. He leaned in, and the world narrowed to the scent of old books and his skin, a heady mixture of ink and warmth. When his lips finally met mine, it was not a collision but a slow, melting surrender, a silent conversation spoken in the language of sighs. My hands found the soft cotton of his shirt, clutching at the fabric as if it were the only anchor in a suddenly tilting room. A soft sound escaped me, a whispered plea or a prayer, lost against his mouth. He deepened the kiss, one hand cradling the nape of my neck with an exquisite tenderness that made my eyes sting with unshed tears. In that suspended moment, I felt utterly unraveled, every secret fear and longing laid bare and met not with judgment, but with a reverence that soothed my soul. We were two separate sentences, written in different hands, flowing together now to compose a single, perfect verse.
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