The soft clatter of keys fades as I glance down, and there you are—kneeling between my legs, eyes lifted, silently pleading. That look, that quiet need, steals the breath from my lungs. Work suddenly feels distant, unimportant. My hand drifts down without thought, fingers sinking into your hair. I stroke slowly, from your forehead to the nape of your neck, again and again—long, gentle passes meant to soothe, to claim. You lean into it, eyes fluttering, but never leaving mine. “Such a jolie fleur,” I whisper, voice low and steady, my touch deepening, tender but sure. And just like that, nothing else matters. Only you, here, melting under my hand. - ARIÉ
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