21Naturals
Sherill Collins, Raul Costa Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun bled honey-gold through the slats of the blinds, striping the rumpled sheets in alternating bands of warmth and cool shadow. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path from the delicate hollow of her ankle up the gentle curve of her calf, a whisper of contact that raised goosebumps in its wake. The air itself felt thick and languid, heavy with the scent of their shared skin and the distant, rhythmic thrum of a bassline from the apartment below. She arched into his touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips as his palm settled agat the back of her thigh, a solid, claiming weight. Every sound was amplified—the rustle of cotton, the catch of a breath, the slick, wet sound of a kiss that started at her knee and journeyed inexorably upward. Time seemed to stretch and dissolve, the weekend sprawling before them like an uncharted map of sensation. Her own hands found the hard planes of his back, nails lightly scoring the skin as he moved over her, blotting out the fading light. The world narrowed to this single room, this single bed, to the electric current that sparked wherever their bodies met. In that suspended moment, there was only the slow, building rhythm of discovery and the profound, unspoken language of touch.
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