Webyoung
Aften Opal, Indica Monroe Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken with a palpable electricity, a silent hum of anticipation that prickled agat my skin. My gaze, almost of its own volition, was drawn across the crowded room and found him, a solitary figure haloed by the soft, golden light of a distant lamp. A slow, secret smile touched his lips, a subtle curve meant only for me, and it sent a cascade of warmth flooding through my ve. I could almost feel the phantom weight of his stare, an invisible caress that traced the line of my jaw and lingered at the hollow of my throat. The low murmur of voices faded into a distant buzz as my world narrowed to the space between us, charged with unspoken promises. He lifted his glass, his long fingers curled around the crystal, and took a deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving mine. In that suspended moment, I imagined the scent of him, a clean, masculine fragrance of sandalwood and night air that I yearned to breathe in deeply. A faint, almost imperceptible flush rose on my chest, a betraying heat that mirrored the quickening pulse I felt low in my belly. This was the beginning of a delicious, unknown dance, a silent question hanging in the air that only our bodies would answer.
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