Wicked
Diana Grace, Jay Romero Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of her perfume and the lingering ghost of his cologne, a cloying mixture that clung to the silk sheets. His fingers traced the delicate curve of her spine, a slow, deliberate journey from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, feeling the faint tremor that betrayed her calm exterior. She arched agat him, a silent plea, her skin flushing a warm rose-gold in the dim lamplight. Every whispered endearment felt like a carefully placed piece in a puzzle whose final image remained frustratingly elusive. He could taste the salt on her skin, a testament to their earlier passion, yet his mind raced, sifting through the honeyed lies that dripped so easily from her lips. The slide of her thigh agat his was an exquisite torture, a promise of pleasure woven with threads of profound distrust. Her eyes, dark pools of seeming adoration, held a flicker of something else, a calculation that mirrored his own. The world narrowed to this bed, this intimate battlefield where truths were exchanged not with words but with the desperate press of bodies. In the quiet aftermath, their shared silence was the loudest confession of all, a chasm of unspoken questions widening between their entangled limbs.
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