Morning Taken

I saw her on a quiet morning, the kind where the world feels too soft to be real. She stood by the edge of the park, golden-haired, like morning itself had decided to wear a body. Her eyes met mine, and neither of us looked away. No smile, no shy glance, just that bold, electric pull.

I don’t remember walking toward her. I only remember the way the air changed when we stood close, warmer, charged. Her hair smelled like sun and springtime, and when I reached to touch a strand, she leaned in instead, lips brushing mine without hesitation.

There were no introductions, no small talk. Our bodies spoke in a language that didn’t need words. She pulled me by the hand, as if she’d known all along where this was going, to the small, hidden corner behind the trees, where the world could vanish for a while.

She pressed against me, and I felt the heat of her through the thin cotton of her dress. I kissed her neck, her collarbone, tasting her skin, fresh, wild, unfiltered. Her hands were everywhere, exploring, claiming, setting fire to every inch of me.

I laid her down in the grass, the sunlight caught in her hair like gold spun from heaven. She opened herself to me with no shame, no fear, only hunger. Our bodies moved like they’d done this before, lifetimes ago. My fingers traced the edge of her pleasure while her breath stuttered, hips rising to meet me.

When I entered her, it was like slipping into something inevitable. We didn’t speak, we didn’t need to. Our rhythm was the music: the rustle of leaves, the sighs, the soft thud of heartbeats chasing each other.

She held me tight, thighs locked around me, mouth parted in silent ecstasy. I lost myself in her completely, in the wildness, the freedom, the raw beauty of a moment stolen from reality.

And when it was over, we lay there tangled, her fingers in my hair, my palm resting on her belly, breath slowly syncing again.

No names. No promises.
Just two strangers who let the morning take them.