Mr.Majic
The last echoes of the city settled outside the window as a soft knock fractured the evening’s quiet expectation. Karla opened the door to find not a simple dessert but Mr. Majic, his presence a silent, potent promise that made the air itself feel heavy and warm. Her husband’s low chuckle was a distant thing as her fingers, trembling slightly, reached to take the proffered box, her knuckles accidentally brushing against the delivery man’s wrist. A current, swift and electric, passed between them, and she watched his dark eyes deepen, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that stole her breath. The world narrowed to this threshold, to the scent of night air and his subtle cologne clinging to his jacket. He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him as his thumb gently traced the line of her jaw, a touch so feather-light it was almost a memory. A soft sigh escaped her lips, her head tilting instinctively into his caress as every nerve ending sang a silent, desperate hymn. The careful facade of the ordinary evening crumbled completely, revealing the raw, aching vulnerability they now shared. In the dim light, their shared breath became the only language, a conversation of longing spoken without a single word. This was the true dessert, a feast of trembling anticipation and stolen, sacred moments.
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