Zerotolerancefilms
Cytherea, Mark Davis Pic(s)
The older man’s hand, broad and warm, settled on the small of her back with a possessive weight that was both a command and a comfort. His fingers, calloused from years of work, traced a slow, deliberate path up her spine, making every vertebra a separate point of awakening. She could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap mingling with the deeper, muskier aroma of his skin, an intoxicating combination that filled her lungs. His breath ghosted across her neck, a warm, humid promise that caused a shiver to cascade over her shoulders and down her arms. When he turned her to face him, the intensity in his gaze was not paternal but primal, a silent conversation of hunger and consent. His thumb brushed her lower lip, a rough, gentle caress that parted her mouth in a silent gasp. The world narrowed to the space between their bodies, the air thickening with unspoken desire and the electric hum of anticipation. He leaned in, his chest pressing agat hers, and she felt the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart echoing her own frantic pulse. In that suspended moment before the kiss, every lesson, every boundary, dissolved into the simple, aching need for his touch.
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