Touchmywife
Addison Vodka, Zane Walker Pic(s)
The warm glow of the lamplight caressed the smooth plane of his back, tracing the familiar contours that once held the taut energy of youth. Her fingers, usually so sure and steady, trembled slightly as they rediscovered the landscape of his skin, feeling the ghost of a more vibrant past beneath her touch. A soft sigh escaped her lips, not of disappointment, but of a deep, aching nostalgia for the fierce, untamed passion that used to ignite so easily between them. She leaned in, her breath a warm whisper agat his neck, inhaling the scent that was uniquely his, a complex tapestry of soap and something wilder, more primal. The memory of his younger self, all reckless hunger and impatient hands, superimposed itself over the man lying beside her, a phantom of intensity that made her heart clench. She could almost feel the echo of that former ardor in the way his muscles tensed under her palm, a dormant fire waiting for the right spark. Closing her eyes, she let her mind drift, painting a picture of sun-drenched afternoons and tangled limbs, of a time when every glance was a promise and every touch a conquest. In this hushed twilight of their bedroom, she wasn’t just touching her husband; she was reaching through time, trying to bridge the years and reclaim a fragment of that raw, unrefined desire. And as her lips finally met his shoulder in a tender kiss, she poured all that longing into the contact, a silent plea for the past to breathe its fire into their present.
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