Mature NL
The rain traced silver paths down the windowpane, blurring the distant city lights into a soft, golden haze just for us. His youthful hands, surprisingly sure, cradled my face as if I were something precious and fragile, his thumb gently stroking my cheek. I could feel the frantic rhythm of my own heart answering the quiet, steady confidence in his touch, a silent conversation spoken only through skin. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of his clean skin and the lingering perfume from my neck. When his lips finally found mine, it was not a conquest but a question, a tender exploration that made my knees tremble. A soft sigh escaped me, a sound of surrender I hadn't known I possessed, as his fingers traced a slow, burning path down the column of my throat. In his earnest gaze, I didn't see my age, but a reflection of the woman I had forgotten still existed, vibrant and desired. Every lingering touch was a verse in a poem we were writing together, a secret narrative of rediscovered passion. The world with all its rules and expectations melted away, leaving only this sacred, stolen space where time held its breath. In that quiet room, with the storm humming against the glass, I was not a wife or a mother, but simply a woman, utterly and beautifully unraveled.
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