21Sextury
Mary Solaris, Ben, Andrew Marshall Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, catching the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny embers around her. She leaned forward, a conspiratorial smile playing on her lips, and a single fiery curl escaped to brush agat the flushed skin of her collarbone. The scent of her was a subtle mix of vanilla and something wilder, like rain on dry earth, and it filled the small space between us. My gaze traced the delicate freckles scattered like constellations across the bridge of her nose, following their path down to where the soft cotton of her shirt gaped slightly. Her voice was a low murmur, a vibration felt as much as heard, as her fingers, cool and gentle, traced an idle pattern on the back of my hand. That simple touch sent a current of warmth spreading up my arm, a slow, molten heat that pooled deep in my belly. I watched the way her eyes, the color of moss after a storm, darkened with a shared, unspoken understanding. The world outside the window seemed to fade into a distant hum, leaving only the charged silence and the palpable electricity of our proximity. In that suspended moment, every breath felt like a promise, and the space between our lips seemed the only distance left in the universe.
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