Filthykings
Alina Ali, Peter Green Pic(s)
The room was thick with the scent of shared secrets and the lingering sweetness of wine on her breath as she leaned closer, her plea a warm whisper agat the shell of my ear. Her fingers, trembling slightly, traced a path down the crisp linen of my shirt, a silent question asked in the language of touch. I could feel the heat radiating from her skin, a palpable energy that promised to erase the distance between helper and the one being helped. My own hands found the small of her back, pressing her flush agat me until I could feel the frantic rhythm of her heart answering the steady, deliberate beat of my own. The soft gasp that escaped her lips was not one of surprise, but of surrender, a sound that seemed to melt into the dim light. I lowered my mouth to the delicate curve of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin and the faint, floral hint of her perfume, a combination that was intoxicatingly unique to her. Our movements became a slow, deliberate dance, a negotiation of desire where every unbuttoning of a clasp and every slide of fabric was a vow of trust exchanged. The world outside the locked door ceased to exist, replaced entirely by the universe contained within the space of our entangled bodies. In that suspended moment, the greatest assistance I could offer was the complete and utter devotion of my senses to her pleasure, a gift given and received in the hushed, breathless dark.
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