Diabolic
Hazel Grace, Oliver Davis Pic(s)
The air in the dimly lit study was thick with the scent of old leather and anticipation, a silent promise hanging between them. His gaze, dark and intense, traced the curve of her spine as she bent over the polished mahogany desk, her skin glowing like warm honey in the low light. A single finger, cool and deliberate, drew a slow, shivering path from the nape of her neck down to the small of her back, making her arch tinctively agat the solid wood. The rustle of crisp parchment under her palms was the only sound besides their synchronized, shallow breathing. He leaned in, his warmth enveloping her from behind, his lips finding the sensitive hollow just below her ear, and she melted into the pressure. His hands, strong and knowing, slid around her waist, pulling her hips back to meet the firm, undeniable ridge of his desire. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips as he began a gentle, rhythmic motion, a primal lesson in anatomy and need. Every nerve ending sang with the friction of his tailored trousers agat her bare thighs, a delicious contrast of rough and smooth. In that suspended moment, surrounded by the silent wisdom of books, they discovered a far more compelling curriculum written in the language of touch.
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