The Room with no clocks
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The Room with no clocks
The rain tapped gently against the tall windows, its rhythm steady and calming. The room was dim, lit only by flickering candles placed around the walls like little sentinels guarding the moment. Heavy curtains sealed them off from the world outside. No clocks. No phones. No interruptions. She stood near the window in a silk robe that clung to her skin, the firelight behind her casting golden shadows across her bare legs. He watched her silently from the edge of the bed, shirt undone, heart pounding louder than the rain. They hadn’t spoken in minutes — they didn’t need to. The electricity between them was thick and pulsing, a silent current that had built over months of looks, words left unspoken, and touches that lingered just a second too long. When she turned to face him, her eyes said everything her lips didn’t. Slow, deliberate steps brought her close, until she stood between his knees. Her fingers slipped into his hair, tugging just enough to tip his head back, and she leaned down, brushing her lips against his — not a kiss, but a promise. He slid the robe from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor like a whisper. Skin met skin, warm and soft. Her breath hitched as his hands explored her back, memorizing every inch with reverence. She straddled his lap, and the world outside ceased to exist. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rough. It was slow, like time had melted around them. Every kiss, every sigh, every press of skin was a language only they understood. His mouth traced the path from her collarbone to the curve of her neck, and her body arched to meet him, craving more, needing more. He whispered her name like a prayer, and she answered with a moan that sent chills down his spine. They moved as one — tangled in sheets, breathless, hearts racing. There was something sacred in the way they held each other, like their bodies were remembering something their souls had always known. When it was over, there was no need for words. Just the sound of rain, steady and endless, and the warmth of her head resting on his chest, their fingers still entwinedComments for The Room with no clocks
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