Puretaboo
Arietta Adams, John Strong Pic(s)
The first tremor was not of fear, but of a profound and startling awakening, a shiver that began deep within the core and radiated outward like a crack spreading through fine porcelain. His gaze, previously so guileless, now held a new weight, a dark intensity that seemed to pull the very air from the room and replace it with something thicker, hotter. The gentle pressure of his hand on the small of her back was no longer a simple guide but a claim, his fingers splaying possessively agat the thin fabric of her dress, branding her skin with a promise of heat. A scent, musky and primal, clung to him, an intoxicating fragrance of night air and desire that filled her lungs with every hesitant breath. The soft murmur of his voice, a low vibration agat her ear, spoke not of sweet nothings but of secrets she had never dared to imagine, each syllable a deliberate caress that unraveled the neat stitches of her upbringing. The world beyond the window, with its familiar streetlights and distant sounds, faded into an irrelevant blur as her universe contracted to the space between their bodies, to the electric charge where his thigh brushed agat hers. She felt the hard plane of his chest agat her own softness, a shocking contrast that made her heart hammer a frantic, unfamiliar rhythm agat her ribs. A single, knowing smile touched his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the threshold she was crossing, a line being irrevocably smudged into obscurity. And in that moment, a delicious, terrifying warmth pooled low in her belly, a molten surrender to a knowledge both ancient and entirely, devastatingly new.
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