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The city hums tonight, a low, restless energy that has sunk into my bones. But it’s nothing compared to the quiet storm sitting across from me. She thinks she’s hiding behind her journal, but I can feel the heat of her gaze on me like a physical touch. The lamplight catches the delicate line of her neck, the slope of her shoulder where her dress has slipped. My book is a pretense; I haven’t absorbed a single word for the last half-hour.

I can smell the jasmine, thick and sweet, but underneath it is her scent—clean skin, a hint of salt, and something else, something wild and entirely her own. It’s the scent that undoes me every time.

I look up and her eyes are on me, dark and unblinking. The air between us crackles, charged and heavy. The civilized world—the distant clatter of streetcars, the murmur of tourists—falls away, leaving only this primal silence.

“You’re not writing,” I say, and my voice is rougher than I intended, scr*ped raw from the effort of holding still.

Her reply is a whisper that slides over my skin. “I am. Just not on the page.”

That’s it. The thread of my control snaps. I close the book, the sound final. I cross the space between us, the flagstones cool under my bare feet. When I kneel before her, the world shrinks to the space her body occupies. The rustle of her dress as I push it up her thighs is the loudest sound in the universe.

Her skin is impossibly soft. I run my hands up her calves, feeling the fine bones, the latent strength. My thumbs find the tender skin of her inner thighs, and she trembles. That tiny, surrendered shudder goes through me like a lightning strike. I lean in, burying my face in the warmth of her neck, breathing her in.

“I can smell the rain on you,” I tell her, and it’s true. “And the jasmine. And your desire. It’s the most potent scent in this city tonight.”

I can’t wait any longer. I crush my mouth to hers, and it’s not a kiss, it’s a confession. It’s every unsaid thing, every hungry thought I’ve had all day, poured into her. She tastes of wine and a sweetness that is purely her. Her fingers twist in my hair, pulling, demanding, and a growl rumbles in my chest.

Lifting her is effortless. She is both weight and weightlessness in my arms. Carrying her to the bedroom feels like the most important journey I will ever make. The room is dark, the ceiling fan a silent witness. I lay her down on the bed and she is a vision in the moonlight, her hair fanned out, her eyes wide and dark with wanting.

Undressing her is a ritual. Each button, each clasp, is a revelation. I need to go slow, to commit every curve, every sigh, to memory. When she is finally bare before me, I have to stop and just look. The pale glow of the window outlines her body, a landscape of sacred hills and valleys. She is more beautiful than any cathedral this city could ever build.

“You are the most beautiful secret this city has ever kept,” I breathe, and I mean it with every fiber of my being.

When I finally sink into her, it’s a homecoming. The world ceases to exist. There is only the slick, hot feel of her surrounding me, the sound of her broken gasps in my ear, the sight of her head thrown back in ecstasy. I move with a slow, deep rhythm, a rhythm as old as the river itself, trying to fuse my soul to hers. This is where I am meant to be. Nowhere else.

She is clutching my back, her nails digging faintly into my skin, her hips rising to meet mine. I watch her come apart, and it is the most breathtaking thing I have ever seen. Her climax is a silent cry against my shoulder, a series of tremors that pull me under with her. My own release is a roaring in my ears, a surrender, my body pouring into hers as I whisper her name—her real name, the one only I am allowed to use—into the damp skin of her throat.

After, collapsed and breathless, I trace the delicate architecture of her spine. She is soft and pliant against me. The jazz from down the street seems slower now, a languid, sated melody just for us.

This is my New Orleans. Not the one of noise and neon, but this. The quiet, the heat, the woman in my arms whose passion runs deeper and darker than the Mississippi. She is my secret, my sanctuary, my story. And I am forever hers.

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