3Rddegreefilms
Kiara Cole, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the bay window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the warm, still air like tiny, suspended desires. Her fingers, usually so brisk and efficient when buttoning a child’s coat, now traced a slow, deliberate path along the starched edge of the armchair, feeling the crisp cotton yield to the heat of her skin. A faint, knowing smile played upon her lips as she watched him watch her, his gaze a tangible weight that seemed to settle on the exposed curve of her neck. The scent of him, a clean mix of soap and the faint, sharp tang of his cologne, filled the space between them, becoming the only air she wished to breathe. She let her head tilt back, a soft sigh escaping as the pad of her thumb brushed over her own lower lip, a silent, practiced invitation. The quiet of the house was profound, a thick blanket of anticipation broken only by the soft rustle of her skirt as she shifted, crossing one leg over the other with a languid, deliberate grace. He moved then, a single step that closed the distance, his shadow falling over her, cool and promising. Her eyes drifted shut, not in avoidance, but to better feel the electric charge in the atmosphere, the unspoken promise of his proximity. When his hand finally, gently, cupped her cheek, the contact was a shockwave of warmth, a silent confession that made her breath catch in her throat.
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