He was used to being worshiped.I remember how my breath caught as he passed me, the scent of something warm and spiced trailing behind—sandalwood and sun and something unplaceable, something his. Gay sex There was something ancient in them, something both cruel and kind, like he carried a forgotten god’s memory behind that gaze.Jet-black hair, long enough to brush his shoulders, curled slightly from sweat and heat. When the breeze played with it, I watched it dance around his face like shadows at dusk. The market was a riot of colors, of scents—cardamom, leather, sweat—and among the whirl of fabric and voices, he emerged like a vision made flesh.He stood at the edge of a spice stall, the air around him electric. I saw him once—only once—and yet, I’ve thought of him every night since. Hazel, but not just any hazel. And the way he moved—slow, deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world and nothing could touch him. I saw him once—only once—and yet, I’ve thought of him every night since.
