21Naturals
Poppy Pleasure, Charlie Dean Pic(s)
The final bell’s echo had long faded, but the real lesson began in the hushed stillness of the forgotten art room, where golden afternoon light streamed through dusty windows, illuminating floating motes of chalk and possibility. His gaze was a physical touch, a slow, deliberate caress that started at the nape of my neck and traveled down my spine, leaving a trail of anticipatory heat in its wake. The scent of turpentine and old paper filled the air, a strangely intoxicating perfume that mingled with the salt of his skin as he stepped closer, his shadow enveloping me. His fingers, calloused and sure, traced the line of my jaw before tilting my chin up, his thumb brushing my lower lip in a question I answered with a soft, parting sigh. The world outside, with its rules and schedules, dissolved into the quiet symphony of our breathing, each exhale a shared secret. He leaned in, and the first brush of his mouth was not a conquest but an exploration, a slow, languid tasting that promised hidden depths. My hands found the worn cotton of his shirt, fisting in the fabric to pull him nearer, feeling the solid warmth of his chest agat mine, a anchor in the rising tide of sensation. A low murmur vibrated from his throat into mine, a wordless sound of wanting that made my knees weaken and my blood sing. In that stolen, sun-drenched hour, every nerve ending awoke, rewriting the map of my body with the exquisite, unplanned poetry of his touch.
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