Helyo Karvalho
Bruno Hot,Helyo Carvalho
The rain traced silver paths down the windowpane, blurring the city lights into a soft, golden haze as he leaned in. His breath was a warm whisper against my neck, a silent question that my own sigh answered completely. I turned to meet his gaze, finding a universe of unspoken promises swimming in his dark, tender eyes. His fingers, trembling slightly, traced the line of my jaw with a reverence that made my heart stutter. When our lips finally met, it was not a collision but a slow, sweet surrender, a conversation spoken in the language of sighs. I could taste the faint, lingering hint of coffee on his tongue, a familiar and intoxicating flavor that was uniquely his. Our bodies swayed together in the dim light, a slow dance of shared warmth and rising heat that felt both new and eternally known. Every gentle touch, every soft moan swallowed by the other, was a verse in a poem we were writing with our souls. The world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the sanctuary of his arms and the symphony of our racing hearts. In that suspended moment, we were not two, but one breathing entity, utterly consumed by a feeling too vast for words.
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