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Coups de cœur Cultura
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Before I ever touched her, I imagined the sound she'd make when I did. Not words. Just the breath between them. That sound. That soft, broken gasp people only give to someone they trust enough to fall apart for. I used to wonder if she'd tremble under me or hold her ground—if she'd whisper my name like it meant release or ruin. I didn't know her then, but I already wanted to memorize the shape of her thighs wrapped around need. Some cravings don't wait for names.
I didn't believe in things like fate. But the first time I saw her, it didn't feel like a meeting—it felt like something that had always been happening. Her eyes met mine, and something inside me went still. Not in fear. Not even in lust. Still like the way fire becomes quiet when it finds the right fuel. She had that kind of look. Playful and shy, but dangerous like she didn't even know the weight of what she carried. She smiled, and that was the moment I started falling.
