Mommysgirl
Skye Blue, Brooke Banner Pic(s)
The final hour dripped like honey from a broken hive, thick and slow and impossibly sweet, each second a languid pulse agat the fevered skin of the world. He traced the map of her spine with a reverence reserved for sacred things, his fingertips learning the delicate architecture of her vertebrae as if committing them to eternal memory. The air itself was heavy with the scent of their mingled sweat and the distant, electric tang of ozone, a perfume of imminent finality. Outside, the silent city glowed with a strange, amber light, but within their sanctuary, the only illumination was the faint sheen of moonlight on damp skin. Her breath hitched as his mouth found the frantic flutter at the base of her throat, a captured bird beating agat the cage of her ribs, a rhythm more urgent than any clock. Every touch was amplified, every whisper a vow etched into the deepening quiet, the soft gasp she made as he entered her becoming a prayer agat the coming silence. They moved not with frantic haste, but with a profound, aching slowness, each movement a deliberate act of defiance, a testament written in the language of friction and heat. The world was ending, but in the slick heat between their bodies, in the desperate clutch of her nails on his back, they were building a universe of their own, moment by fleeting moment. And as the distant horizon began to bloom with a soundless, blinding white, their joined cries were not of fear, but of a fierce, triumphant completion, a final, perfect note held agat the void.
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