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Coups de cœur Cultura
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The first time Carter saw Harper, she was leaning over her porch railing, a glass of wine in her hand and the late-summer sun catching the soft curve of her smile. I wasn't supposed to notice her the way I did. She was older, married, and more self-assured than any woman I'd ever met. But the way her blouse clung to her, hinting at the fullness beneath, the way her hips swayed when she shifted her weight — it wasn't something a man could simply unsee.
Harper wasn't just beautiful. She was dangerous.
It wasn't just her looks; it was the way she held my gaze a little too long, the way her lips parted as though she were letting me in on a secret. Every casual touch seemed to linger, every laugh carried a suggestion, every movement made me wonder what it would feel like to close the distance between us.
I told myself it was nothing — just harmless attraction. But every time I heard her laugh from across the street, every time her perfume drifted past me in the warm night air, I knew the truth: I wanted her. And more than that, I wanted her to know exactly how badly.
