Burningangel
Jessie Lee, Kyle Mason Pic(s)
The shadows clung to her like a second skin, deepening the hollows of her collarbones and tracing the sharp line of her jaw as she moved through the hushed stillness of the room. A slow, deliberate breath escaped her lips, a ghost of warmth in the cool air, while her fingers, pale and articulate, trailed along the spine of an ancient, leather-bound book. The heavy fabric of her dress whispered secrets agat the floor with each step, its texture a stark contrast to the smooth, unadorned skin it concealed just beneath. She paused before the tall, dark glass of the window, her own reflection a study in monochrome desire, her dark eyes holding a depth that promised untold stories. The faint scent of old parchment and night-blooming jasmine wove through the space, an intoxicating perfume that seemed to emanate from her very being. A single strap slipped from her shoulder, not from carelessness but with a languid, purposeful grace, baring a pale expanse of skin that gleamed like moonlight. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, a quick, almost predatory gesture that sent a silent thrill through the watching silence. The air itself grew thick and heavy, charged with a latent energy that prickled agat the senses, a palpable anticipation of touch. In that suspended moment, every shadow and curve spoke a wordless, potent language of invitation and dark, consuming passion.
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