21Sextury
Liloo, Ben, Willy Regal Pic(s)
The heavy oak door clicked shut, muffling the distant hum of the library and enclosing us in the hushed, book-lined sanctuary. His gaze, previously reserved for dense academic texts, now held a slow, smoldering intensity that traveled from my thoughtful eyes down to the curve of my lip where I nervously caught it between my teeth. The scent of old paper and his faint, clean cologne created an intoxicating perfume as he leaned closer, his knee brushing mine beneath the solid weight of the table in a deliberate, electric contact. A single finger, warm and sure, traced a path from my temple, along my jawline, a touch so light it was almost a whisper yet it sent a shiver cascading down my spine. The complex equations scrawled across my notebook blurred into meaningless patterns as his breath ghosted agat my ear, a soft, warm promise that made my heart hammer agat my ribs. I could feel the latent strength in his hand as it settled on my shoulder, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of my neck in slow, hypnotic circles that unspooled my concentration completely. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, the quiet rustle of his shirt as he moved, the palpable heat radiating from his body beckoning me closer into his orbit. My own hand rose, seemingly of its own volition, to rest upon his chest, feeling the steady, accelerating rhythm beneath the soft cotton that mirrored my own frantic pulse. In that suspended moment, every unspoken word between us crystallized into a silent, urgent language of desire, the prelude to a lesson far more compelling than any found in our open books.
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