The Colossus of Azrou
The journey from Barcelona to the heart of Morocco had been long, but the exhaustion vanished the moment I laid eyes on Muhammad. Farid’s cousin was a force of nature—a towering man with deep green eyes and a physique forged by years of labor in the Atlas foothills. His presence was an overwhelming wave of masculinity that left me breathless.
That first evening was a blur of warmth. We shared spiced Harira soup and tender lamb, the air thick with the scent of mint tea. Throughout the meal, I felt Muhammad’s silent gaze upon me, a heavy, electric tension that simmered beneath his quiet exterior. When the house finally fell silent, we were left alone in the upper pavilion, a private sanctuary.
Muhammad stepped closer, his massive frame casting a shadow over me. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low rumble that vibrated in my chest. He reached out, his calloused thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a tenderness that contradicted his size. I leaned into his touch, the heat radiating from his skin igniting a fire within me. In that moment, the world outside the pavilion ceased to exist, leaving only the rhythmic beat of our hearts and the promise of a night spent discovering every inch of one another.