Puretaboo
Avery Black, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The world outside the thin walls dissolved into a meaningless hum as his fingers found the heated silk of her skin, tracing the desperate arch of her spine. A low, guttural sound escaped her lips, not of protest but of pure, unadulterated surrender to the pressure building between them. Every point of contact was a small conflagration, his thigh a solid anchor agat the trembling softness of hers, his mouth a brand upon the frantic pulse at her throat. The air grew thick with the scent of their exertion, a primal perfume of salt and desire that drowned all other thought. She let her head fall back, offering the vulnerable column of her neck as her own hands clutched at the hard planes of his back, nails scoring faint, possessive lines. There was no past, no future, only this singular, consuming present where the only reality was the friction of their bodies moving in a ancient, urgent rhythm. The tight coil deep within her belly began to unravel, a spark catching on dry tinder, spreading a liquid heat through her ve. His name became a broken prayer on her tongue, a chant lost agat his shoulder as the room seemed to tilt and fracture into blinding light. In that shattering culmination, the confines of self and situation simply melted away, leaving nothing but a boundless, weightless freedom.
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