I imagine the weight of his golden skin against mine, the press of his hands—strong and commanding—on my body, his mouth tracing stories in a language I don’t understand. I dream of that voice, low and rough, murmuring things not meant for daylight.He was a mirage in the heat. Gay sex 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. Every muscle on his body, beneath a loose, half-buttoned linen shirt, moved like liquid. I imagine the weight of his golden skin against mine, the press of his hands—strong and commanding—on my body, his mouth tracing stories in a language I don’t understand. When the breeze played with it, I watched it dance around his face like shadows at dusk. Men and women alike turned to glance at him, and yet he barely noticed. I imagine the weight of his golden skin against mine, the press of his hands—strong and commanding—on my body, his mouth tracing stories in a language I don’t understand.
