#storytime #histoire #cuisiner #pourtoiii #fyy

My poor brother cried to his mother in my back and I didn't say no. It was supposed to be a week calm. My husband, Antonio, was part of the operation and his brother, Joao, came to visit him a few days ago. Nothing extraordinary in appearance. But since he arrived, I felt something changed in the air. There was this aura around him, a mixture of mystery and noise. His gaze, his smile, it was like if he had the temptation in him. From the first night, we arrived, we talked, we played like two old accomplices. However, each one laughed, each gaze changed, I felt a tension between us. His audacity brought me to the head, his arms made me frisson, and even his simple soft, when he was thinking a little too much, he took a short break between my feet. Then this night, everything came to an end. I slept in half when a raw mother slept. The heart was beating, I grew up with a voice. And there, the door was opened brutally. Joao entered, just in pyjama, and there, impossible to not notice his invisible package under the t-shirt. It was massive. His silhouette is imposing, his torso which was cut off by his eyes, his neck muscles, I stayed fixed, in pilot fin, manoeuvring my pillow. He captured the scene, but he kept his calm, serrated towards the placard, leaving a small smile, balanced by the window. Nothing serious. But the troublemaker was there, between us, enormous, brilliant. I said thank you, the white voice. He smiled a little bit at the heart. I still see it slowly, impossible to ignore. This night, I did not sleep. His image was everywhere. This looks dark, this hearted, this virility almost insolent. I feel my neck contracted to every thought. And the worst is that I did not want to stop thinking.