Nurumassage
Kenna James, Eric Masterson Pic(s)
The worn leather of his armchair sighed beneath his shifting weight as evening shadows stretched across the silent living room, his calloused fingers tracing the ghost of a touch along the armrest where laughter once lingered. Moonlight spilled through half-drawn blinds like liquid silver, illuminating dust motes dancing in the heavy air thick with memories of slammed doors and fractured goodnights. He could still smell her perfume clinging to the fabric of his shirt—a faint whisper of jasmine and anger from their earlier confrontation that now coiled low in his belly. Every creak of the settling house echoed the tension thrumming through his ve, a restless energy that made his skin feel too tight, too warm. His gaze drifted to the family portrait on the mantel, their smiling faces now blurred by the ache of distance, and he imagined the weight of a different kind of touch—softer, forgiving. The memory of her teenage defiance melted into older, warmer recollections of slender wrists and shared secrets, the dangerous overlap making his breath catch. He let his head fall back agat the chair, eyes closing as he fantasized about gentle fingers carding through his graying hair, absolving the day’s frustrations with each slow stroke. A shudder ran through him at the thought of murmured apologies dissolving into something deeper, more primal, where words became unnecessary. In the deepening quiet, he surrendered to the vivid daydream of healing what was broken with the language of skin and sighing relearning.
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