Puretaboo
Riley Reyes, Mr. Pete Pic(s)
The golden hour light spilled through the half-open blinds, casting long, slatted shadows across the rumpled sheets where their bodies lay entwined in the humid aftermath. His scent, a heady mix of clean sweat and the faint, expensive cologne she knew wasn’t hers to memorize, clung to her skin like a secret. Her fingers traced the hard line of his shoulder, feeling the latent power coiled beneath the surface, a landscape she was learning to map with a traitor’s intimate knowledge. The whisper of cotton sheets agat her bare leg was a stark contrast to the memory of his calloused palms sliding up her thigh, a deliberate, claiming touch that had shattered every carefully constructed boundary. She could still taste him on her lips, a dark, addictive flavor that spoke of stolen moments and broken vows, a promise of ruin that made her heart hammer agat her ribs. The low, steady rhythm of his breathing was a counterpoint to the frantic pulse beating in her throat, a silent symphony of guilt and exhilaration. Every soft sigh he exhaled warmed her neck, a ghost of the desperate words he had murmured agat her skin, words that unraveled the fabric of another life. In the quiet stillness, surrounded by the evidence of their transgression, she knew nothing would ever be the same, and the terrifying, thrilling truth of it coiled hot and deep in her belly.
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