Whiteghetto
A.J. Estrada, Mark Wood, Joe Blow Pic(s)
The room was thick with the scent of her perfume, a heady mix of jasmine and sweat that clung to the air like a second skin. His eyes, dark and unwavering, traced the curve of her spine as she arched beneath another man’s touch, a soft moan escaping her lips that was both familiar and utterly foreign to him. The low light caught the sheen on their bodies, glistening with a passion that was not his to claim, yet he watched, transfixed, as her fingers dug into the stranger’s shoulders. Each gasp she uttered was a delicate symphony of surrender, echoing in the stillness of the night, while the rhythmic creak of the bed filled the spaces between their breaths. He could feel the heat radiating from their entangled forms, a visceral warmth that seeped into his own skin, stirring a complex ache deep within his chest. Her gaze met his briefly, a flicker of something unspoken—apology, invitation, or triumph—before she closed her eyes and lost herself again. The sight of her pleasure, so raw and unfiltered, was a beautiful torment that tightened his throat and quickened his pulse. In that suspended moment, he was both a spectator and a participant, bound by the invisible threads of desire and longing. The world narrowed to this single, intimate tableau, where every sigh and shudder wove a story he would replay in the quiet hours to come.
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