Diabolic
Daya Knight, Isiah Maxwell Pic(s)
The world fell away, leaving only the profound and velvety silence of a space without light. His fingers, a whisper agat the ide of her wrist, traced a path of deliberate discovery up the sensitive skin of her forearm. Every nerve ending awoke, translating that faint pressure into a language of pure anticipation, a map of shivers that followed in his wake. The air itself grew thick, charged with the scent of warm skin and the faint, intoxicating aroma of sandalwood that clung to him. She felt the solid heat of his body before it made contact, a radiating presence that promised both shelter and conquest in the encompassing dark. A low murmur, more vibration than sound, rumbled from his chest and traveled through her own, a primal communication that bypassed all reason. When his lips finally found the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, it was not a kiss but a claiming, a slow, deliberate taste that sent a molten current straight to her core. Her own breath hitched, a sharp intake that was the only surrender she could offer, as his hands settled on her hips with an unshakeable certainty. In this absolute blackness, sight was a forgotten sense, replaced entirely by the exquisite, overwhelming grammar of touch, taste, and the shared, heavy rhythm of their breathing.
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