Tabooheat
Cory Chase, Maya Farrell Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, catching the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, suspended sparks. Her voice was a low, melodic hum that vibrated through the space between us, a sound felt more than heard. She moved with a languid grace, her fingertips tracing an invisible pattern on the polished wood of the table before her eyes met mine, holding a knowledge that made my breath catch. The scent of her perfume, something dark and floral like night-blooming jasmine, wrapped around me, an intoxicating promise. A single, deliberate step closed the distance, the rustle of her silk robe whispering secrets agat her skin. She took my hand, her touch not demanding but infinitely sure, guiding my palm to feel the delicate, rapid flutter of her pulse at her wrist. It was a silent language, this tutelage of touch, where every glance was a sentence and every shared inhalation a paragraph. The world outside the room faded into an indistinct blur, the only reality the heat radiating from her body and the intense, focused depth of her gaze. In that suspended moment, I understood that some educations are not taught with words, but absorbed through the skin, the blood, the very core of one’s being.
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