21Sextury
Cherry Kiss, Toby Pic(s)
The stadium’s roar faded into a distant hum as his powerful hands, still marked with faint traces of chalk, traced the curve of my spine with deliberate slowness. Each calloused fingertip left trails of electricity across my skin, mapping constellations of sensation that made me shiver. His breath warmed my neck, carrying the faint scent of autumn air and honest sweat from the field. I could feel the hard muscle of his thighs pressing agat mine, a testament to countless hours of training and raw strength. Our lips met not in gentle exploration but with the fierce intensity of a final drive downfield, hungry and claiming. The world narrowed to the space between our bodies, where heat radiated like sunlight on freshly cut grass. His low groan vibrated through me as my fingers tangled in his damp hair, pulling him closer still. Every nerve ending sang with the thrill of this collision, two bodies communicating in a language older than any game. In that suspended moment, we were both victors in this silent, breathless contest of flesh and desire.
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