21Sextury
Anastasia Brokelyn, Sam Bourne Pic(s)
The heavy oak door swung inward with a groan, revealing a scene illuminated by the flickering firelight that painted their entwined bodies in shades of gold and shadow. His hand, large and possessive, was splayed across the small of her back, pressing her agat the silk-draped settee where her own fingers were tangled desperately in his disheveled hair. A gasp, sharp and unmistakable, escaped her lips, not of passion now but of sheer, cold horror as the intimate warmth of the room was invaded by a chilling draft from the hallway. The scent of their mingled sweat and her spilled perfume, once an intoxicating aphrodisiac, now hung in the air like an accusation. His head snapped up, eyes wide with the primal fear of a predator caught mid-hunt, his previously urgent movements freezing into a statue of guilt. Her husband’s silhouette filled the doorway, a silent, towering monument to their transgression, his face a mask of such profound betrayal that it seemed to suck all the sound from the world. The delicate crystal glass she had been holding earlier lay forgotten on the floor, a solitary drop of deep red wine seeping into the priceless Persian rug like a fresh, damning wound. In that suspended moment, every whispered promise and secret touch was laid bare, their carefully constructed world of clandestine meetings shattering into irredeemable fragments under that grievous, unblinking stare. The only sound was the frantic, synchronized hammering of their two hearts, a frantic drumbeat agat the crushing weight of discovery.
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