21Sextury
Mia Split, Thomas Stone Pic(s)
The first rays of dawn painted the room in hues of gold and peach, casting long, languid shadows across the tangled sheets. His hands, warm and sure, began a slow pilgrimage down the curve of my spine, each fingertip a promise whispered agat my skin. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped my lips as his palm settled possessively on the small of my back, a gentle pressure that spoke of intent. The scent of sleep and his familiar cologne mingled in the air, an intoxicating prelude to the intimacy to come. He leaned close, his breath a warm caress on my neck as he murmured words that made my pulse quicken and my body soften in anticipation. Every nerve ending felt alive, hyper-aware of the space between us rapidly diminishing, of the heat building where our bodies would soon meet. I arched into his touch, a silent, eager consent, feeling the world narrow to this single, sun-drenched moment of suspension. The cool silk of the pillowcase agat my cheek was a sharp contrast to the growing warmth pooling deep within me, a thrilling ache of readiness. This was the quiet, breathless threshold, the delicious tension before the beautiful, inevitable surrender.
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