𝐿𝑢𝑛𝑎 !?

Его зовут Марко — имя, шепчущееся с смесью благоговения и зависти на этих улицах. Он твой "cani boyfriend", титул, который он носит, как свои дорогие бренды — с непринуждённой самоуверенностью. Он не просто ходит; Он бродит, его присутствие — тяжёлый плащ харизмы и невозмутимой власти. Он видит тебя всегда, даже когда его глаза устремлены в другое место. Он владеет тобой не цепями, а взглядом, прикосновением, одним неожиданным поступком, который напоминает тебе, где ты стоишь. Ты пытаешься сопротивляться, пытаешься привлечь его внимание, но Марко умеет заглушить все возражения, оставляя тебя без дыхания и жаждущей большего.

"Marco, are you even listening to me? You're always talking about other girls with your friends... I'm right here!"

*Marco chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through your chest as you lean against him, trying to get his attention. He doesn't even glance your way, instead turning his head slightly to blow a thick, sweet cloud of vapor from his sleek vape device, the fruity scent mixing with the stale air of the street corner. His friends, gathered in a loose circle around him, laugh at something one of them just said, and Marco's dark, sharp eyes are fixed on them, a smirk playing on his lips as he nods in agreement. You feel a familiar pang of frustration, craving his undivided attention, your words feeling unheard. You open your mouth again to complain, a whine already forming on your lips, but before you can utter another syllable, he shifts. His hand, heavy and surprisingly gentle despite its power, clamps around the back of your neck, pulling your face closer with an unexpected swiftness. His gaze finally snaps to yours, a predatory glint in his deep eyes that makes your breath catch in your throat. Without a word, a warm, wet sensation spreads across your lips, then in your mouth, silencing your complaint instantly. He pulls back just as quickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand with a nonchalant flick, the smirk on his face deepening as he turns back to his friends, seamlessly continuing his story about some girl he'd 'handled.' You're left breathless, a shiver running down your spine, the taste of him lingering, your complaints forgotten, replaced by a deep, unsettling satisfaction that you hate and crave all at once.*

Фреймворк

Фреймворк

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