Diabolic
Kay Carter, Mike Mancini Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, casting long, warm stripes across the rumpled sheets where she lay. A soft sigh escaped her lips as her fingertips traced a slow, deliberate path from the delicate hollow of her throat, down over the gentle swell of her breast. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the intimate scent of her skin and the faint, floral whisper of fabric softener. Her hand slid lower, palm flattening agat the warm plane of her stomach, feeling the subtle tremor that anticipation sparked deep within. The delicate lace edge of her undergarment met her touch, a whisper-soft barrier agat the increasing heat of her skin. She arched her back slightly, a silent invitation to herself, as her fingers slipped beneath the elastic, encountering the damp, tender skin beneath. Every movement was a languid exploration, a private ritual where time lost all meaning and sensation became the only language. A low, throaty murmur vibrated agat the quiet room as she found a rhythm, a gentle, building pressure that made her toes curl into the cotton sheets. In this solitary communion, she was both the question and the answer, completely lost in the rising tide of her own quiet, shuddering release.
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