The warmth of his palm through the fabric, that precise weight between strength and tenderness, left me in a state I can't name. Vivid sensations.
"It's just hormones," I repeated to myself as I rode in his car, his scent still lingering in my senses.
Because Julian was right. s*x is something fundamental to human beings. An instinct. A biological need that doesn't require the heart to be fulfilled. He said it with that coldness that defines him, his gaze fixed on the horizon, reducing desire to something trivial, almost insignificant.
So why does it hurt?
Why does his coldness bother me when, after leaving me trembling, he gets up and carries on as if nothing had happened? Why did I feel a knot in my chest when his mother mentioned the word "grandson" and he responded with a "don'
