Whiteghetto
Angel Cummings, Justin Long Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of her perfume and the musk of another man, a heady mixture that made his heart pound a frantic rhythm agat his ribs. From his designated chair in the corner, he watched the play of firelight over their entangled forms, the way her back arched in a perfect, desperate curve as a low moan escaped her lips. Every sigh that fell from her mouth was a symphony of pleasure he had never been able to elicit, a raw and honest sound that both humiliated and aroused him. The stranger’s hands, large and possessive, mapped the familiar territory of her hips, claiming what was once solely his to worship. He could see the sheen of sweat on her skin, glistening like liquid silk in the dim glow, and he memorized the look of utter abandon on her face, a portrait of ecstasy given to another. The soft, wet sounds of their union filled the silence, a relentless and intimate cadence that bound him to the scene as a willing, captive audience. His own breath hitched, his body tensing with a confusing surge of jealousy and a deep, undeniable thrill that coiled hot in his belly. This was his role, to witness her unraveling, to see her become a creature of pure sensation under another’s touch. In that suspended moment, the sharp sting of his own inadequacy was inextricably woven with the most potent arousal he had ever known.
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