Karups
Karups Pic(s)
The afternoon sun spilled like honey through the kitchen window, gilding the dust motes dancing in the air between us. His fingers, dusted with flour, gently traced the line of my jaw before offering a plump, sun-warmed strawberry. I closed my eyes as I accepted it, the burst of sweet juice on my tongue feeling like a secret we now shared. A whisper of cinnamon from the baking galette clung to his shirt, a scent that made my heart flutter against my ribs like a captive bird. He leaned in, his breath a soft warmth against my temple, and the world narrowed to this quiet, fragrant space. The weight of his hand settled on the small of my back, a steady, comforting pressure that promised I was safe, I was cherished. I could feel the slow, steady thrum of his pulse where our wrists accidentally brushed, a silent rhythm that seemed to sync with my own. Every glance we exchanged was a unspoken conversation, filled with a tenderness that threatened to overwhelm me. In that moment, the simple act of sharing food became a language of its own, a delicious, aching poetry of desire. I knew then that this was more than hunger; it was a feast for the soul, a connection so profound it left me breathless.
Comments
Post a Comment