Semua Bab Kiss me 2.1: Bab 131 - Bab 140

LéoI realize I am clenching my fists. That my nails are digging into my palms. The studio has become a battlefield and I am its only witness, the only one who knows the origin of each shard, each sonic wound. It is unbearable. It is necessary.She finally lowers her violin. Her breath is short. She looks at me, and her gaze is no longer that of the composer or the performer. It is naked. Questioning."Is that… is that it?" she asks, in a barely audible voice, ravaged by the effort.I don't answer right away. How to say it's worse? That it's better? That it's exact? The music revealed the bone beneath the flesh of our conflict."It's more than that," I finally say, my voice hoarse. "You played… what I couldn't say. What was beneath the anger."A shiver runs through Clara."My God," she murmurs. "You recorded an entire night on your raw nerves and you want us to play it in public?"ÉloïseI gently put my violin down on a chair. I approach Clara. I see in her eyes a mixture of dread and

ÉloïseTime no longer flows, it throbs. His hand on my hair is an anchor point in an ocean of latent sensations. Each breath I take slightly lifts my head against his knees; each exhale is a tiny letting go. I could remain like this for an eternity, in this liminal suspension, where desire is no longer an arrow but a tide, slow, inexorable.Then his hand moves. His fingers trace the contour of my ear, a fragile curve he follows with an archaeologist's reverence. The shiver is not brutal. It is deep, it shoots from that precise point and diffuses under my skin like ink in water. I hold my breath. His fingers descend, sliding along my jaw, brushing the frantic pulse beating at the base of my neck. He says everything without a word. He says: I see you. I know you. I remember the cartography of your anger, and now I want that of your peace.I turn my head, laying my cheek flat on his thigh. My eyes open, meet his in the half-light. They are two black embers, fixed, absorbing all the diffu

ÉloïseHis whisper, My music, still resonates within me, a continuous bass beneath the skin, when I feel his breath even out, his body grow heavy against mine in sleep. But mine refuses oblivion. I am awake, vibrating, every nerve still incandescent. The night is a vast tense silence around our damp alcove, and this silence is now an instrument. An instrument I want to make play.I extricate myself with infinite slowness, lifting his arm that encircles me, slipping out of the circle of his warmth. The cool air on my naked skin makes me shiver, a delicious contrast after the furnace of our bodies. Standing at the edge of the bed, I watch him sleep. In the half-light, he is a landscape of shaded hills and valleys, of relaxed muscles, of conquered peace. But I know the eruption beneath the earth's crust.I do not get dressed. Nudity is my uniform, my armor, my state of truth. I walk barefoot on the cold floor to the bedroom door. I do not go far. I turn around, lean against the doorframe

Title: At the Mercy of the FireSummary:When Éléa accidentally walks into a bar, she has no idea her life is about to be turned upside down by the hands of a stranger with an ashen gaze. He offers her neither love nor promise – only vertigo, submission, and a carnal intensity she cannot resist.Each night, he pushes her further, strips away her bearings, makes an obsession of her... and becomes hers. They don't really know each other, but their bodies speak a burning, visceral, irrevocable language.What was meant to be only a liaison becomes a prison of pleasure. And in this intoxicating spiral, nothing exists anymore except this toxic, exclusive, inevitable fusion.But what happens when the fire no longer warms… and begins to devour?---ÉléaI don't know why I walked into that bar that night.It wasn't on my usual path, not in my habits, not even in my comfort zone. Too discreet. Too muted. Too… otherworldly.Maybe I was running from something.Or maybe, secretly, I wanted to be c

ÉléaI am no longer hungry.I no longer sleep.I no longer think about my work, my appointments, my friends.I think about nothing, really.I think about him.About his powerful hands encircling my neck with wild gentleness.About his murmured orders, rough and precise, gliding against my trembling lips.About the insistent bite of his teeth on my hip, like a mark he stamps on me, a mute claim.About the dense, almost sacred silence that falls between two moans.I no longer live outside of him.I live in him.Everything I was – bright, independent, stable – has faded, slowly, insidiously.And yet, deep in this void, I don't feel lost.I finally feel in my place.When I cross his door, I enter another world.A world where time stretches, where the weight of the past fades, where morality no longer exists.A world without a pendulum. Without rules. Without judgment.Just him.Just me.And everything our bodies demand with a wild, almost animal intensity.He undresses me without a word.