Webyoung
Rharri Rhound, Skylar Vox Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick, heavy with the scent of aged whiskey and the faint, cloying sweetness of his cologne, a fragrance that seemed to cling to the very velvet of the armchair where he sat, a king upon a worn throne. His gaze, a slow, deliberate caress, traveled across the space between us, not with a father’s warmth but with the possessive appraisal of a collector examining a long-desired prize. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped his lips, a sound that vibrated through the floorboards and settled deep in the pit of my stomach, a warning and a promise tangled together. The deliberate way he swirled the amber liquid in his glass mirrored the slow, predatory curl of his smile, a gesture that made the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention. I could feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch, a phantom hand tracing the line of my spine, each vertebrae seeming to ignite under that unseen pressure. The silence itself became a tangible thing, stretched taut between us, charged with an unspoken hunger that was far more intimate than any touch could be. His presence was an encroaching tide, threatening to drown out the frantic rhythm of my own pulse thrumming in my ears, a desperate drumbeat agat the encroaching stillness. Every tinct screamed to flee, to break the magnetic pull that drew my eyes to the knowing glint in his, a dark pool of intent I feared I might drown in. To stay was to surrender to the inevitable, to become ensnared in a game where the rules were written in the languid, confident arc of his brow and the silent command in his stillness.
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