Wicked
Stacy Bloom, Josh Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to pulse with the heat of their entangled bodies, a thick humidity clinging to skin already slick with a sheen of exertion and desire. His hands, which moments before had traced worshipful paths along the curve of her spine, now gripped her hips with a possessive urgency that bordered on violence. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, a primal counterpoint to the sharp, rhythmic slap of flesh meeting flesh in the dimly lit room. Her own cries were muffled agat the rumpled sheets, a mixture of pleasure and something darker, a bitter acknowledgment of the precipice upon which they teetered. The scent of their union, musky and sweet, filled every breath, a heady perfume that clouded judgment and heightened every sensation to an almost unbearable degree. He drove into her with a frantic, desperate pace, each thrust feeling less like an act of passion and more like a frantic attempt to reclaim a territory already lost. She could feel the tension coiling deep within him, a gathering storm that promised a fleeting, explosive release, yet her own body responded with a traitorous clenching, a physiological lie that betrayed the cold certainty solidifying in her mind. In the fractured mirror across the room, their reflection was a blur of motion, a grotesque pantomime of intimacy stripped bare of its tenderness, leaving only the raw, mechanical truth of the act. And as his final, shuddering groan filled the silence that followed, the only thought that crystallized for her was the chilling clarity of a plan set irrevocably into motion.
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