Devilsfilm
Payton Preslee, Tony Lovelocks Pic(s)
The oppressive heat of the car was a thick, syrupy presence, clinging to their skin like a second layer. He could feel the dampness of his shirt agat the leather seat, a stark contrast to the dry, dusty air that whistled through a cracked window. Her perfume, once a light floral promise, had now fermented in the stagnant atmosphere into something heady and intoxicating. Every small shift of her body beside him sent a jolt through the confined space, the whisper of her silk skirt agat her thighs a maddening counterpoint to the hum of the engine. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his focus fractured by the glimpse of a bead of sweat tracing a slow, deliberate path down the elegant column of her neck. The memory of their last, furious argument hung between them, a charged silence that felt more intimate than any touch. He imagined the salt of that sweat on his tongue, the sharp intake of her breath if his fingers were to stray from the wheel to the warm, bare skin of her knee. The world outside blurred into an indistinct smear of ochre and green, the road itself seeming to pulse with a heat-haze mirage of tangled limbs and stifled moans. This journey was a special kind of torment, a slow burn of proximity and resentment that coiled tight in his gut with every passing, silent mile.
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