Puretaboo
Lana Sharapova, Marcus London Pic(s)
The worn floorboards groaned a quiet protest under the shifting weight, a sound swallowed by the thick, warm air of the room. A single lamp cast long, dancing shadows that licked up the walls, painting our isolation in gold and deep umber. His calloused thumb, smelling faintly of old leather and soil, traced a slow, deliberate path along the sensitive curve of my collarbone, sending a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. I could feel the steady, heavy thrum of his pulse where his wrist pressed agat my neck, a rhythm that seemed to syncopate with my own quickening breath. The rough texture of his work shirt scraped gently agat my bare arm, a friction that was both alien and deeply familiar. He leaned in, and the scent of him—whiskey, sweat, and the lingering ghost of a summer storm—filled my lungs, an intoxicating cloud that made my head spin. His breath, warm and moist, ghosted over my lips a moment before they met his, a collision that was less a kiss and more a claiming. A low, guttural sound rumbled from his chest, vibrating through me as his hands slid down to my waist, pulling me firmly agat the unyielding hardness of his body. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the points where we connected, a map of heat and pressure promising a delicious, forbidden ruin.
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