Rainy night on the old balcony

The rain began suddenly—those heavy, warm summer drops that steamed the asphalt and wooden balconies. We sat in an old armchair, wrapped in a blanket. The air smelled of dew, jasmine, and her skin—a mix of vanilla and light musk that made me dizzy with every breath. “Are you cold?” he asked in a whisper. His lips were so close to my ear that his warm breath sent shivers down my spine. "Not with you," I replied, looking into his eyes. There was no longer any hesitation in his gaze. His fingers trailed down my neck, slowly, as if studying every inch. When his lips touched mine, it wasn't just a kiss—it was the release of years of suppressed desire. His tongue was warm and demanding, the blanket slipping imperceptibly to the floor. My hands found their way to her waist, then slid under her thin, slightly rain-damp silk shirt. Her skin burned. She moaned softly with each touch, clutching my shoulders, her body pressed against mine as if there was not a single molecule of air between them. The sound of the rain covered our rapid breathing. She sat on my knees, the slow, undulating movement of her hips taking my mind away. We were no longer in a hurry. Every second, every shiver and touch was an ecstasy that slowly, like an inevitable wave, carried us towards climax...