Brock swole
The city’s distant pulse was a muted drumbeat against the windowpane, a world away from the quiet sanctuary we had found. His silhouette, etched against the neon glow, was a study of quiet strength as he turned from the view. A single, hesitant touch of his hand to my cheek sent a tremor through me, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with an almost reverent slowness. Our eyes met, and in that deep, silent exchange, the entire noisy world simply ceased to exist. He leaned in, his forehead gently resting against mine, our shared breath a warm, intimate cloud in the cool night air. I could feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart where my hand rested on his chest, a frantic counterpoint to the soft sigh that escaped my lips. The scent of his skin, a faint mix of night air and something uniquely him, wrapped around me like a promise. When his lips finally found mine, it was not a conquest but a question, a tender exploration that spoke of longing and unspoken truths. Every fiber of my being sang with a raw, aching vulnerability, a feeling of coming home to a place I never knew I belonged. In that suspended moment, the allure was not the city, but the breathtaking discovery of a soul I was destined to find.
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