Diabolic
Ana Foxxx, Nat Turnher Pic(s)
The silence of the house was a heavy blanket, broken only by the frantic rhythm of two hearts hammering agat ribs. His fingers, trembling with a desperate urgency, traced the delicate curve of her spine, feeling each vertebra like a pearl on a string beneath her damp skin. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips as his mouth found the sensitive hollow of her throat, tasting the salt of her fear and her burgeoning desire. The air grew thick, charged with the scent of their mingled sweat and the faint, expensive perfume she had applied hours earlier for a different purpose entirely. Every creak of the floorboards upstairs was a lightning strike of panic, freezing them in a tangled tableau of lust and terror. Her nails dug into the solid muscle of his shoulders, a silent plea and an anchor as he pressed her back agat the cool, unyielding surface of the refrigerator. The world outside this frantic, stolen moment ceased to exist, replaced by the slick heat of their joining and the shared, breathless awareness of their catastrophic mistake. Time stretched and snapped, each second a lifetime of risk and reward, as they moved together in a frantic, silent symphony of need. This was the precipice, a delicious, terrifying fall from grace where every touch was both a sin and a salvation.
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