You Can't Fake the Moisture
You Can't Fake the Moisture This morning, sunlight spilled through the kitchen window as he wrapped his arms around me, spinning me gently like a slow dance. His blue eyes met my sleepy green ones, and he smiled with quiet satisfaction. "You can't make up the moist," he whispered, lips brushing my ear. "Must mean I'm doing a good job…" I laughed softly, leaning into his warmth. The kiss he gave me was featherlight, lingering just long enough to remind me of last night—of how close we were, how wild. The living room TV hummed in the background, looping TikToks under his daughter's command, but we were in that kitchen, and we were in our own world. My body still hummed with the memory of his touch, the way our fantasies spilled into whispered confessions and tangled limbs. Moonlight had painted our silhouettes on the wall as we moved together—his hands gripping my hips, my legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper. We kissed like we were starving. I ...