Puretaboo
Jill Kassidy, Charles Dera Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to hold its breath, thick with the phantom scent of a perfume she had never worn for him. His gaze traced the impossible curve of her neck in the dim light, a path his fingers ached to follow but knew they never would. Every rustle of silk from the other room was a tiny agony, a promise of a touch that existed only in the fevered landscape of his imagination. He could almost feel the weight of her hip agat his palm, a solid warmth that was, in cruel reality, mere empty space and cool night air. The memory of her laugh, low and husky, echoed not in his ears but deep within his bones, a vibration that left him trembling. He envisioned the slow, deliberate parting of her lips, not for a kiss, but for a whispered secret that would forever remain unspoken. This longing was a physical presence, a heavy cloak of want draped over his shoulders, its fabric woven from every stolen glance and every word left unsaid. It was the exquisite torture of craving a feast laid out before a man condemned to only ever smell its aroma. In the profound silence, his desire became a tangible thing, a perfect, shimmering sphere of ache just beyond his grasp, beautiful and utterly devastating.
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