Priselvis
The golden afternoon light spilled through the window, catching the dust motes dancing around her like tiny, shy fairies. She stood there, a silent confession in the quiet room, her gaze holding a universe of unspoken longings. A slow, tender smile touched her lips, a secret she seemed to be offering only to me. The delicate fabric of her dress whispered against her skin as she moved, each rustle a soft drumbeat in the hushed space. I watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, a rhythm that echoed the frantic pulse I felt in my own wrists. Her fingers, elegant and sure, traced a absent-minded pattern on her own arm, a silent language of yearning. The air grew thick with the scent of her perfume, a intoxicating blend of vanilla and twilight, wrapping around my senses. In her eyes, I saw not just beauty, but a deep, resonant ache that mirrored the one in my own soul. It was a moment suspended in honey, a perfect, aching vulnerability that made the world outside cease to exist. This was the first glimpse into a story I desperately wanted to read, a single, breathless chapter of a secret we had yet to write together.
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