21Sextury
Angelika Grays, Raul Costa Pic(s)
The heavy velvet curtain muffled the roar from the other side, leaving only the intimate sounds of our shared space: the rustle of his costume, the sharp intake of his breath, the frantic rhythm of my own heart. My fingers, trembling slightly, worked deftly to fasten the intricate clasps at the back of his doublet, each tiny click a secret promise in the dim, dusty air thick with the scent of his cologne and old wood. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin through the fine fabric, a living, breathing furnace of coiled energy and focus. Leaning closer, my lips brushed the nape of his neck, a ghost of a touch that made his shoulders tense and then relax into my silent ministrations. The moment stretched, elastic and profound, as I absorbed his pre-performance tension, my presence a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of his thoughts. My palm flattened agat the firm plane of his back, a wordless communication of faith that needed no audience, no applause. He turned, his eyes, dark and intense, capturing mine, and in their depths I saw not the performer but the man, vulnerable and real. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips, a private reward just for me, before he took a final, centering breath. Then he turned towards the sliver of blinding light, stepping from our hidden world into the glare, carrying my unwavering strength with him into the spotlight.
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