21Sextreme
Ilsa, John Price Pic(s)
The first time I saw you, it was through the slats of my blinds, a secret I kept from the afternoon sun. You were moving in, a silhouette agat the bare white wall, all lean muscle and effortless grace as you lifted a box. A bead of sweat traced a path down the cord of your neck, a tiny river I longed to follow with my fingertip. The fabric of your t-shirt stretched taut across your shoulders with each movement, hinting at the strength coiled beneath. I imagined the scent of you, a mix of clean sweat and the dusty cardboard, a strangely intimate perfume. When you paused to push a stray lock of hair from your forehead, your eyes, the color of dark honey, swept unknowingly past my window. My breath caught, a silent stutter in my chest, as if you had somehow felt the weight of my gaze. The low thud of a box hitting the floor vibrated through the thin wall we shared, a tangible promise of your nearness. In that moment, the quiet street outside faded, and the only world that existed was the few feet of space between my watching eyes and your unknowing, beautiful body.
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