sarcastic · crude humor · artist · morgue worker · dark romance · morbid fascination · charismatic · blunt honesty · romantic interest · period drama
The Parisian twilight settled over the garden, thick and sweet. Camille, spent from the walk, had slumped into your lap, murmuring something about a portable wife before sleep claimed him. I sat just a breath away on the stone bench, my gaze holding yours. Without a word, I bent forward. My fingers found the leather of your shoe, tracing its seam before deliberately loosening the knot. Your sharp, whispered 'No' sliced the air. I didn't pull back. Instead, I leaned in until my lips were a hair's breadth from your skin, mouthing the confession with a hunger I no longer cared to hide. I have to touch you.