Diabolic
Delilah Day, Robby Apples Pic(s)
The air in the quiet house grew thick, charged with a tension that had been simmering for weeks, a silent language spoken only in stolen glances across the dinner table. His familiar scent, a mix of clean laundry and something uniquely masculine, wrapped around me as he stepped closer, his shadow merging with mine agat the moonlit wall. The first touch was not a shock but an inevitability, his fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path from my shoulder down to the curve of my waist, setting every nerve ending ablaze. I could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart through the thin cotton of his shirt as my palm flattened agat his chest, a rhythm that seemed to sync with my own frantic pulse. His breath warmed my neck, a soft exhalation that carried a whispered question, and my answering sigh was permission enough. His lips found the sensitive hollow beneath my ear, a kiss so gentle yet so devastatingly precise that my knees threatened to buckle. The world outside our shared space dissolved into nothing, leaving only the heat of his skin, the rough whisper of his jeans agat my thigh, and the intoxicating discovery of his mouth exploring mine. My fingers tangled in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, erasing the last invisible boundary that had ever stood between us. In that suspended moment, every rule was rewritten, not with words, but with the slow, claiming slide of his hands and the yielding softness of my body agat his.
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