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Serena Blair, Alex Coal Pic(s)
The ghost of your scent, a faint whisper of sandalwood and summer skin, still haunts the air when I close my eyes and travel back. I can feel the heavy warmth of that attic room, the dust motes dancing like tiny diamonds in the single slanted beam of late afternoon sun that cut across the old Persian rug. Our world was that rug, an island defined by the press of your body agat mine, a slow, deliberate weight that spoke of hours, not minutes. Your fingers, tracing the delicate architecture of my collarbone, were learning a map they never wanted to forget. I remember the sound, a soft, ragged sigh that escaped my lips as you found the sensitive hollow at the base of my throat with your mouth. The taste of you was a complex language of salt and desire, learned eagerly with every meeting of our lips. The world outside, with its distant traffic and fading light, ceased to exist, replaced by the symphony of our shared breath and the creak of the floorboards beneath us. Every touch was a promise whispered agat feverish skin, a silent vow that this moment was infinite. We were not two people, but a single, breathing entity, woven together in the golden, timeless haze of that secret afternoon.
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