Jonathan Jordan
The evening air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine, clinging to our skin like a secret. Leilani’s gaze held mine, a silent conversation unfolding in the space between our slow, measured breaths. Her fingers, feather-light, traced the line of my jaw, a touch so deliberate it felt like a question. I could feel the quiet thunder of my own heart answering, a frantic drum against the stillness of the room. She leaned in, her forehead gently resting against mine, and the world narrowed to this single, suspended moment. The warmth of her skin was a language I was only just learning to speak, a tender dialect of heat and trust. A soft sigh escaped her lips, not of impatience, but of profound understanding, a sound that settled deep within my soul. In the half-light, every slight shift of her body was a verse in a poem we were writing together. This was not a demand, but a slow, unspoken promise being woven from shared silence and trembling hope. And I knew, with a certainty that shook me, that I would gladly pay any price to live forever in the quiet echo of this feeling.
Comments
Post a Comment