Touchmywife
Chanel Brooks, Jovan Jordan Pic(s)
The air in the dimly lit trailer was thick with the scent of stale champagne and the sharp, honest perfume of sweat, a stark contrast to the sterile artifice of the soundstage just outside the door. His calloused fingers, so different from the soft, manicured hands she was used to, traced a slow, deliberate path from the nape of her neck down the delicate ridge of her spine, making her shiver agat the cold metal wall. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips, a sound utterly foreign to the chirpy, scripted laughter she performed for the cameras, and it was swallowed whole by the heat of his mouth on hers. The frantic, whispered promises tangled with the taste of salt and desperation, each kiss a frantic rebellion agat the contracts and non-disclosure agreements that bound their public lives. She could feel the coarse texture of his work shirt under her grasping hands, a tangible reality that erased the memory of sequined gowns and the producer’s constant directives. Outside, a muffled voice called her name, a distant echo from a world that suddenly felt a million miles away, irrelevant agat the pounding of her own heart. His body pressed agat hers was an anchor, a heavy, warm weight that grounded her in this delicious, terrifying secret, every shift and tremor speaking a language more truthful than any confessional interview. The faint, buzzing hum of a forgotten microphone pack, forgotten on the counter, seemed to pulse in time with the frantic rhythm they created, a silent witness to the ruin of carefully constructed personas. In that suspended moment, the only competition was the ache for more, a raw, hungry need that made a mockery of the plastic trophy waiting under the studio lights.
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