Breathless ✓

Thirty - Two ✔

The morning sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room as I slowly blink away the remnants of sleep. The sheets are a tangled embrace around us, evidence of the night that unfolded in passionate waves.

I turn to find Christian, still lost in slumber, his features softened by the morning light. The tousled hair that was once meticulously styled now falls in disarray, and a satisfied smile graces his lips. It's a stark contrast to the stern, controlled exterior he often wears in the waking world.

I can't help but trace the lines of his face with my eyes, marveling at the vulnerability that only emerges in moments like these. There's an intimacy in the hushed tranquility of the morning, a feeling that lingers from the shared whispers and laughter of the night before.

The scent of our entwined bodies hangs in the air, a heady reminder of the passion that ignited and flared. The room is a sanctuary, a haven where time seems to pause, and the outside world momentarily ceases to exist.

I stretch languidly, feeling the pleasant soreness in my muscles—a testament to the fervor of our connection. The soft rustle of the sheets accompanies my movements, and I can't help but steal a glance at Christian, wondering if he'll stir.

His eyes flutter open, and the hazel depths meet mine. There's a flicker of recognition, a shared acknowledgment of the intimacy we've woven into the fabric of this room.

"Good morning," he murmurs, his voice still husky with sleep.

"Morning," I reply, a grin playing on my lips. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been reborn," he chuckles, reaching out to pull me closer.

The morning is a canvas of shared smiles, lingering touches, and whispered words. We navigate the space between wakefulness and dreams, cocooned in the afterglow of a night where passion painted our souls.

As we lie there, entangled in each other's arms, the world outside seems distant and irrelevant. The vulnerability of the morning light reveals not just our physical forms but also the unspoken promises and shared secrets that make this connection extraordinary.

In the hushed serenity, I savor the details—the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his skin against mine, the way our fingers find solace in each other's touch. It's an intimate dance, a silent celebration of the love that has blossomed between us.

I find myself lying across Christian's bare chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath my cheek. The soft light of day accentuates the contours of his face as I gaze up at him, a question lingering on my lips.

"Tell me about your childhood, Christian," I ask, my voice a mere breath against his skin.

A flicker of nostalgia dances in his eyes, and a small smile graces his lips. "There were moments, you know? Good ones. My father, despite his involvement in less-than-legal affairs, tried to create a semblance of normalcy for me. Summers at our family estate, laughter echoing through the halls, and even simple things like learning to ride a bike."

His words paint a picture of a childhood that, despite its unconventional nature, held moments of warmth and joy. I listen, captivated, as he shares snippets of a past that shaped the man lying beside me.

But when I ask about his mother, there's a palpable shift in the air. Christian's expression tightens, and he seems momentarily lost in a sea of conflicting emotions.

Christian's eyes darken with a mixture of sorrow and reluctance. I can sense that delving into the topic of his mother brings forth a cascade of emotions, but my curiosity is met with his willingness to share.