Brock swole
The hotel door clicked shut, a sound that sealed us in a world away from the sidelines and our other lives. Her eyes, dark pools of wanting, met mine, and the air itself grew thick with the heat of a decision already made. My hands found her waist, pulling her close until I could feel the frantic rhythm of her heart answering my own. A soft sigh escaped her lips as my mouth traced a slow, burning path down the curve of her neck, tasting the salt of anticipation on her skin. Her fingers tangled in my hair, not guiding, but holding on as if I were the only solid thing in a spinning room. When I laid her back upon the cool sheets, the sight of her arching against the fabric was a poem of surrender I longed to memorize. Every touch was a whispered secret, every shudder a confession we would never speak aloud. I lost myself in the cadence of our joining, a silent language of need and release that left us both breathless and trembling. In the quiet aftermath, our foreheads pressed together, our shared breath a fragile bridge between the storm we’d created and the calm we had to return to. That final, tender kiss held the bittersweet truth of a stolen moment, perfect and complete in its forbidden glory.
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