It started with her lips. Soft, full, painted in a shade that promised sin. They hovered close, teasing, not quite touching, until they did. And when they did, it was like fire under skin. Her kiss wasn’t gentle. It was hungry. Juicy, wet, open-mouthed, tasting me like she’d been starving for it. Her tongue slipped past mine with ease, confident, playful, like she already knew how to make me…
I saw her on a quiet morning, the kind where the world feels too soft to be real. She stood by the edge of the park, golden-haired, like morning itself had decided to wear a body. Her eyes met mine, and neither of us looked away. No smile, no shy glance, just that bold, electric pull. I don’t remember walking toward her. I only remember the way the air changed when we stood close, warmer,…
Steam rises from my coffee cup, warm against my lips, but not as warm as the thoughts stirring in me, as I see her gliding down my street like a living ache, wrapped in a dress that clings too close, too right. She moves like she knows I’m watching. Maybe she does. Maybe she wants me to. Each step writes stories across my skin scenarios thick with sweat and breath and the sound of her moaning…
