Burningangel
Jane Wilde, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The heavy velvet curta were drawn agat the mundane world, enclosing them in a circle of flickering candlelight that painted their skin with dancing shadows. He traced the curve of her spine with a single, deliberate finger, a slow pilgrimage from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, feeling her shiver in response. The air itself was thick with the scent of aged parchment, melting beeswax, and the dark, earthy perfume of their shared intent. Her lips parted, not in a prayer but in a soft, yielding sigh as his mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, a silent invocation agat her flesh. Around them, the flames seemed to lean in, casting a hellish glow that gilded the sweat beginning to gleam on their limbs. Every touch was a deliberate blasphemy, a sacred vow whispered into the warm, salt-kissed hollow of her collarbone. Her hands slid over his shoulders, nails lightly scoring his skin as she arched into him, a willing supplicant in their private rite. The only sounds were the crackle of the wicks and the ragged rhythm of their breathing, a syncopated drumbeat for a dance as old as desire. In that charged silence, they worshipped not a distant deity, but the raw, untamed divinity coiled within each other’s trembling forms.
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