Girls That Finish The Job
Girls That Finish The Job Pic(s)
The evening sun bled honey-gold through the grand windows of the silent studio, catching the dust motes dancing around us like shy fireflies. His gaze was a tangible warmth upon my skin, a silent question that made my breath catch. He stepped closer, his hand hovering near my waist before settling with a gentleness that spoke of reverence, not possession. A soft sigh escaped my lips as I leaned into the solid comfort of his chest, my own hands finding the soft wool of his sweater. The world narrowed to this single, breathless moment, the only sound the quiet rhythm of our hearts learning a new, synchronized beat. His thumb traced a slow, deliberate arc along my jawline, tilting my face upwards to meet his eyes, which held a universe of unspoken promises. I could feel the faint tremor in his fingers, a mirror to the wild flutter beneath my own ribs, a silent language of shared vulnerability. The scent of his cologne, clean and faintly of sandalwood, wove itself into the very air I breathed, becoming the essence of safety and thrilling anticipation. In that suspended silence, every inch of my being felt awakened, hyper-aware of the electric space between our almost-touching lips. It was a lesson in patience, in the exquisite torture of a desire so profound it needed no words to be completely, perfectly understood.
Comments
Post a Comment