The Man of My Dreams
The crowded lounge was a blur of noise and neon, but the moment he stepped into her space, the world narrowed down to a single point of intensity. Merche felt the heat of him before he even spoke, a magnetic pull that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. He didn’t lead with a cliché; he led with an observation that felt dangerously intimate.
“I need to talk to you,” he murmured, his voice a low velvet rasp that vibrated in her chest. He told her she was special, not in the way a stranger tries to flatter, but in the way a man describes a long-lost treasure. He claimed he had been searching for her for a long time, describing her essence as if he had memorized her in a previous life.
“Am I the woman of your dreams?” Merche laughed, though her heart hammered against her ribs. He stepped closer, the scent of sandalwood and rain enveloping her. He didn’t answer with words; instead, he let his gaze linger on her lips, a silent promise of a passion that transcended the noise of the room.