Puretaboo
Savannah Sixx, Ricky Spanish Pic(s)
The cool marble of the altar seeped into the bare skin of her back, a stark contrast to the fevered warmth blooming across her chest. His gaze, heavy and intent, traced the delicate arch of her throat as her head fell back in a gesture of profound surrender. A single calloused thumb brushed the frantic pulse at the base of her neck, a touch that was both a question and a command. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the raw, metallic tang of anticipation. A low murmur, more vibration than word, rumbled from his chest as he leaned closer, his shadow eclipsing the flickering torchlight. She felt the whisper-soft drag of silk cords agat her wrists, not as a binding, but as a caress that promised a delicious helplessness. Every shallow, shared breath became a ritual, a preparation for the offering of her own trembling form. The world narrowed to this sacred space, to the pressure of his knee gently parting her own, an unspoken covenant of what was to come. In that suspended moment before the fall, she was not a victim but a willing participant, her silent assent the truest form of devotion.
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