21Sextreme
Szandi, Mugur Pic(s)
The evening air hummed with the scent of night-blooming jasmine as I watched the flicker of candlelight dance behind his sheer curta, casting long, suggestive shadows across the ceiling. His silhouette moved with a fluid grace I’d never witnessed during our mundane daytime encounters, peeling away the crisp business attire to reveal skin that glowed like warm honey in the low light. A low, throaty laugh escaped the open window, followed by the soft rustle of silk sliding from shoulders to pool on the floorboards in a whisper of surrender. I could almost taste the salt on his skin from here, imagining the path my tongue would trace along the tense line of his jaw, down the column of his throat to the frantic pulse beating at its base. His hands, usually occupied with briefcases and morning newspapers, now explored the lush landscape of another with a reverent hunger, mapping every curve and hollow as if committing them to memory. The deep, resonant murmur of his voice wove through the night, speaking words of such intimate devotion they made my own breath catch in my chest, each syllable a velvet stroke agat bare flesh. I saw the arch of a back, the delicate curve of a spine as fingers tangled in hair, pulling gently to expose the vulnerable line of a neck to hungry lips. The very atmosphere thickened with the musk of desire, a heady perfume of sweat and whispered promises that clung to the darkness like a second skin. In that hidden world behind glass, he was not the man who borrowed my lawnmower but a creature of pure sensation, unraveling in the heat of a passion so raw it felt like a confession.
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