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At a candlelit masquerade, we pretended to be strangers. One touch unraveled us. until we discovered we were not alone. Someone had been watching.
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I’m not afraid of your hands on my body; I’m afraid of how easily I’d give you my soul, if you asked for it the right way.
I don’t write erotica only to arouse. I write to remember.
You don’t say a word. You just touch me like I’m sacred scripture, and your fingertips are fluent in my margins.
Sometimes, it’s not the sound, but the silence after that makes my chest tighten. Like the hush between two people who haven’t touched yet, but want to.