Diabolic
Khloe Kapri, Jay Romero Pic(s)
The air crackled with the unspoken weight of years, a thick tension that clung to the skin like a second layer. His gaze, heavy and knowing, traced the defiant line of her jaw before dropping to the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat. She met his stare, a challenge simmering in her own eyes, her breath catching as he took a single, deliberate step forward, closing the distance until the heat of his body was a palpable force agat hers. The scent of him, old leather and clean sweat, filled her senses, a familiar intoxicant that unraveled the careful composure she had spent all evening building. His hand rose, not with force, but with a slow, inevitable certainty, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of her collarbone in a touch that was both a question and a declaration. A shiver, entirely beyond her control, wracked her frame, a silent admission that sparked a dark, triumphant gleam in his expression. Her own fingers curled into the rough fabric of his shirt, not to push away, but to anchor herself agat the dizzying pull of a history too complex to name. He leaned in, his voice a low rumble that vibrated deep within her chest, whispering promises of a reckoning long overdue. In that suspended moment, every past grievance and unfulfilled desire coalesced into a single, breathless point of contact, the prelude to a final, consuming collision.
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