Puretaboo
Eliza Eves, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The first tremor began not as a touch but as a resonance deep within her marrow, a low hum that promised to shatter the careful architecture of her composure. His gaze was a physical weight, warm and heavy as sunlight on closed eyelids, tracing the delicate line of her collarbone with an artist’s possessive scrutiny. A single finger, calloused and deliberate, followed the path his eyes had blazed, a slow pilgrimage down the slope of her shoulder that left a trail of fire in its wake. She felt the fine silk of her blouse whisper agat her skin like a secret being untold, each button yielding not with a pop but a sigh of surrender. The air grew thick with the scent of him—clean sweat, dark whiskey, and the faint, electric ozone of impending rain. Her own breath hitched, a ragged counterpoint to the steady, confident rhythm of his as he leaned in, his lips hovering a breath away from the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. Every nerve ending screamed its awareness, mapping the exact distance between their bodies, a charged space humming with unspoken permission. The world outside the window, the city’s distant murmur, faded into a meaningless blur, all reality contracting to this single, suspended moment of anticipation. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her, part plea and part benediction, as the last vestige of resistance melted into a liquid pool of want deep in her belly.
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