Puretaboo
Lola Fae, Lucky Fate Pic(s)
The world outside their window had become a ghost, a pale imitation of life filtered through layers of sterilized polymer, but ide, a different kind of fever burned. His fingers, tracing the delicate cartography of her spine, felt like the first warm rain after a long drought, each touch a promise whispered agat her skin. She arched into his palm, a silent supplication, her breath catching as his lips found the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. The air, thick with the scent of their mingled sweat and the faint, metallic tang of the air purifier, was a heady perfume that drowned out all fear. Every sense was heightened, every whisper of cotton sliding from her shoulder roared like a symphony, every graze of his stubble on her collarbone was a lightning strike. He moved agat her with a slow, deliberate rhythm that mirrored the desperate, primal need coiling deep within her own body. In the half-light of the quarantine lamps, their shadows fused into a single, writhing silhouette on the wall, a testament to a connection no pathogen could sever. A low moan escaped her lips, not of pain, but of profound relief, as his hands claimed the gentle curve of her hips, anchoring them both in the storm. This was their rebellion, their sanctuary; not an escape from the dying world, but a defiant celebration of the raw, trembling life that persisted within it.
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