Cole Williams POVCarter’s hands glide over my shoulder blades, sliding in rings, circling like they know the terrain better than I do. Every press is sharp, almost painful, then softens into something dangerously delicious. He has a way of finding the exact line between tension and release, teasing the edge so that every nerve is awake, alive, but never quite screaming. It’s a rhythm, a slow, unspoken choreography that leaves my muscles slack but my mind spinning.Time ceases to exist. Seconds, minutes, hours it’s all gone. All that remains is him, and the heat of his hands on my back.Eventually, the intensity fades. His fingers soften, tracing light paths across my skin. He weaves through my hair, tugging just enough to send shivers up my spine. His palms cradle my head, pressing against pressure points, and for a moment, I feel trapped in the safest kind of cage. Each fingertip removes a hidden knot, a buried shard of pain,
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