21Sextury
Liloo, Ben Pic(s)
The heavy velvet blindfold was not an obstruction but an invitation, heightening every other sense as the world dissolved into a landscape of touch and sound. His breath, warm and faintly spiced, ghosted across the nape of my neck, a silent promise that sent a shiver cascading down my spine. The deliberate, almost ceremonial pace of his hands as they slid from my shoulders to my wrists was a study in exquisite tension, each movement telegraphing a profound and patient intent. I felt the soft friction of silk as the sash of my robe loosened, the fabric whispering a secret as it pooled in a silent heap at my feet. The sudden, shocking warmth of his palm, flat agat the small of my back, was an anchor, holding me steady in the rising tide of anticipation. A low murmur, more vibration than word, rumbled through his chest and into mine as he pulled me agat the solid strength of his body. My own hands, now unbound, tinctively sought the texture of his skin, finding the taut planes of his stomach and the surprising softness of the hair that trailed downward. The scent of him, clean sweat and dark amber, filled my lungs, becoming the very air I breathed as his lips finally found the sensitive curve where my shoulder met my throat. In that suspended moment, the universe contracted to the points of contact between us, a silent, electric language of pure sensation that promised an unraveling I would never be able to forget.
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