Mommysgirl
Christy Love, Aila Donovan, Lana Sharapova Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of old paper and something sharper, a faint trace of his cologne that clung to the worn wool of his jacket. He didn’t speak, but his presence was a low hum agat my skin, a palpable energy that made the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention. His gaze, dark and focused, traveled over me with the slow, deliberate intensity of a scholar examining a rare text, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. One hand rose, not to touch, but to gesture, his long fingers carving a silent question in the space between us. I watched the way the light from the single lamp caught the silver at his temples, glinting like a secret promise. My own breath hitched as he finally stepped closer, the floorboard creaking a protest under his weight, and the world narrowed to the space his body occupied. The rough texture of his tweed sleeve brushed my bare forearm, a whisper of friction that sent a jolt straight to my core. He leaned in, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that vibrated through me, explaining nothing and everything all at once. In that suspended moment, I understood that the most profound lessons are not taught with words, but learned through the silent, aching language of anticipation.
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