Scoring with the Boyfriend at the Game: A Tempting Mishap

Biaruyva

Jack Porpeta,Bia Ruyva

The roar of the stadium was a distant hum, a world away from the quiet storm building between us in the dimly lit concession corridor. His arm, slung casually over my shoulder, felt like a brand of pure heat, his fingers tracing lazy, secret patterns on my skin. I leaned into the solid warmth of his side, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp night air. Our eyes met, and the victorious gleam in his gaze softened into something deeper, more intimate. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat answering the unspoken question in his quiet smile. He shifted, his forehead gently resting against mine, our shared breath creating a private universe in the crowded space. The world narrowed to the feeling of his thumb stroking my cheek, a touch so tender it made my throat ache. Every nerve ending sang with the proximity, a delicious, aching tension that promised everything and demanded nothing. I felt myself melting into him, completely disarmed by the raw affection shining in his eyes. In that suspended moment, nothing else existed but the silent, breathtaking language of our love.