Roccosiffredi
Darcia Lee, Oliver Trunk Pic(s)
The stale scent of cheap champagne and old perfume could not mask the electric hum of rediscovery that charged the air between them. His gaze, once familiar from shared algebra classes, now held a darker, more deliberate heat as it traveled slowly from the curve of her smile down to the vulnerable hollow of her throat. A forgotten CD from their senior year pulsed a low, thrumming bass through the gymnasium floor, its rhythm syncing with the sudden, heavy beat of her heart. His knuckles, calloused in a way they never were at eighteen, brushed agat the bare skin of her arm as he reached for her empty glass, a touch that felt less like an accident and more like a promise. The silk of her dress whispered agat her thighs as she shifted her weight, a conscious, subtle movement that closed the small, formal distance he had maintained all evening. He leaned in, and his breath was warm agat her ear as he murmured something lost to the music, but the intent was clear in the way his lips almost grazed her lobe. Her own breath caught, a sharp, quiet intake as she felt the solid pressure of his thigh agat hers, a silent question posed in the dim, glittering light. The world of awkward handshakes and polite inquiries dissolved, leaving only the map of his body so close to hers, a territory she suddenly ached to explore without the constraints of time or memory. Every nerve ending sang with the anticipation of his mouth finally finding hers, a decade of what-ifs culminating in this single, breathless moment on the dance floor.
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