Karups
Karups Pic(s)
The golden hour sun bled through the grand windows of the old perfumery, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to move in time with our breathing. His gaze was a tangible warmth upon my skin, a silent question hanging in the dust-moted air between us. He reached out, his fingers barely grazing the sensitive skin of my inner wrist as he guided the glass stopper for me to smell. The fragrance unfurled like a secret whispered against my pulse, a dizzying blend of night-blooming jasmine and sun-warmed skin. My eyes fluttered closed as a shiver traced the entire length of my spine, a delicious, involuntary reaction to his nearness. I could feel the soft wool of his sweater brush my arm, a fleeting touch that sent a wave of heat through me. In that suspended moment, the complex notes of the perfume became our unspoken language, speaking of longing and of promise. My heart hammered a frantic, hopeful rhythm against my ribs, a captive bird feeling the first hint of an open cage. When I finally dared to look at him, his expression was one of raw, unveiled wonder, as if he were seeing something truly sacred. The entire world had narrowed to this single, breathless point of connection, forever imprinted with the intoxicating scent of what could be.
Comments
Post a Comment