Burningangel
Joanna Angel, Codey Steele Pic(s)
The world outside the window ceased to exist, its light and sound fading into a muffled, distant hum as if a thick velvet curtain had been drawn across reality itself. He moved with a deliberate, almost agonizing slowness, his hands tracing a path of fire over the landscape of my skin, each touch a silent, desperate plea agat the encroaching nothingness. My own fingers tangled in the damp heat of his hair, pulling him closer, needing the solid, breathing proof of his existence to anchor me. The air grew thick and heavy, tasting of salt and a shared, frantic urgency, our ragged breaths the only music in the sudden, profound quiet. Every sensation was amplified, from the rough texture of the sheets beneath my back to the exquisite pressure of his mouth claiming mine in a bruising, soul-deep kiss. We were ghosts in our own private universe, two bodies straining agat an invisible force that sought to erase the very memory of this connection. A low moan escaped my throat, not just from pleasure, but from the terrifying, exhilarating freedom of being felt, seen, and known in this isolated pocket of time. The darkness behind my eyelids bloomed with bursts of color, a silent, spectacular rebellion agat the void that pressed in from all sides. In that final, shattering moment of release, we were not just two people, but a blazing testament to a truth too potent to ever be fully extinguished.
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