Diabolic
Amari Anne, Davon Drake Pic(s)
The world dissolved into a profound and velvety absence of light, a silence so deep it became a palpable pressure agat the skin. His fingers, tracing a path up the ide of my thigh, were not seen but felt, a slow-moving heat that mapped the landscape of my anticipation. Each touch was a deliberate exploration, a blind cartographer charting the sensitive geography of my flesh. My own hands found the solid warmth of his back, learning the contours of muscle and sinew through touch alone, a language older than sight. The air grew thick with the scent of our mingled breath and the faint, electric aroma of arousal. A low murmur escaped his lips, a vibration that traveled through his chest and into my palms, a secret shared in the void. My back arched tinctively as his mouth found the pulse point at my neck, his tongue a brand of fire in the cool darkness. Every other sense was amplified, the slide of skin agat skin becoming a roaring symphony, the taste of his sweat a sharp, intoxicating mineral on my tongue. In that absolute blackness, we were reduced to pure sensation, two bodies navigating a primal sea where every whisper and shudder was a blazing star.
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