Diabolic
Kayley Gunner, Robby Apples Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, casting long, warm stripes across the worn velvet of the sofa where they sat, the heavy calculus text forgotten on the floor. His focus had narrowed to the gentle, hypnotic rhythm of her breathing, a soft tide that made the soft wool of her sweater rise and fall in a way that was impossible to ignore. A stray beam of light caught the delicate curve of her neck as she turned to explain a theorem, her voice a low murmur that seemed to vibrate through the very air between them. He watched, mesmerized, as the full, generous shape of her chest pressed agat the fabric with each inhalation, creating shadows and contours that promised a profound, yielding softness. The scent of her perfume, something like jasmine and warm skin, filled his senses, making the dry academic concepts evaporate from his mind entirely. His own breath hitched as she leaned closer to point out an equation, her arm brushing his, the heat of her body a palpable force that made his pulse quicken. In that suspended moment, the world outside the quiet room ceased to exist, replaced by the overwhelming presence of her femininity. He imagined the weight and warmth of her, the way she would feel cradled in his hands, a living sculpture of breathtaking curves. This was a lesson in a different, more primal language, one written in the silent, potent geometry of desire.
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