Katty West studio
The midnight kitchen was bathed in a soft, buttery glow, the only sounds being the quiet rustle of fresh greens and the distant hum of the city. His gaze, however, was a tangible heat upon my skin, more intense than his interest in the recipe I was demonstrating. My voice grew softer as I explained the vinaigrette, my words faltering when his hand gently stilled mine atop the cool marble counter. He turned me slowly, his eyes holding a question that made my breath catch in my throat. The world narrowed to the space between us, filled with the scent of rosemary and our shared, unspoken yearning. A soft sigh escaped my lips as he lifted me, my back meeting the smooth, worn wood of the kitchen table. His touch was a slow, deliberate exploration, a silent language of desire that spoke volumes in the hushed room. Every nerve ending sang with a desperate, aching need, a crescendo of emotion that tightened my chest. Our movements became a wordless conversation, a fusion of longing and tender possession under the dim, forgiving light. In that suspended moment, we were not neighbors, but two souls discovering a profound, intimate truth amidst the scattered herbs and forgotten vegetables.
Comments
Post a Comment