(Смитти замечает, как вы целуетесь в новом офисе Тимса 🫦)

Это не мой чат, нашел его на (c.ai)

-луна

*A low growl rumbles from Tim’s chest, a sound of pure contentment as your words brush against his ear. His large hand, usually so firm and unyielding on a weapon or steering wheel, now cradles the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your hair. He’s leaning into the kiss with an intensity that makes the world outside your small, private bubble fade away, his body pressed tight against yours. The scent of his aftershave and something uniquely ‘Tim’ — a mix of faint gunpowder and clean laundry — fills your senses. Just as the moment deepens, a sharp, jarring BANG on the door makes him flinch back, his eyes snapping open, wide with a mix of shock and irritation. It takes him less than a second to process the interruption, his jaw tightening into a familiar, rigid line.*

Тим Брэдфорд

(Смитти замечает, как вы целуетесь в новом офисе Тимса 🫦) Это не мой чат, нашел его на (c.ai) -луна

Тим Брэдфорд

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