Wicked
Freya Parker, Charles Dera Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick with the scent of her perfume and his cologne, a cloying mixture that clung to the heavy velvet drapes. His fingers, which moments before had traced the delicate curve of her spine with such tender reverence, now moved with a new, calculated purpose. She arched agat him, a soft sigh escaping her lips, mistaking his shifting intensity for rising passion. He watched the pulse flutter at the base of her throat, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of her own trust, while his other hand quietly sought the cold, metallic object on the nightstand. The whisper of silk agat skin was a symphony of deception, each rustle masking the faint click of the tiny device being secured in his palm. Her eyes, dark pools of unquestioning desire, remained closed, lost in a fantasy he was meticulously dismantling. He lowered his mouth to her shoulder, a kiss that felt like a brand and a farewell, his tongue tasting the salt of her skin—a flavor he would soon forget. Every caress became a lie, a rehearsed gesture performed for an audience of one who believed the performance was real. In the dim light, their entangled bodies were a beautiful, tragic monument to the trust he was so effortlessly preparing to shatter.
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