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Destiny Cruz, Robby Apples, Billy Boston Pic(s)
The air hung thick with the scent of old paper and dust motes dancing in the single sliver of moonlight that cut across the room. Every rustle of her clothing agat her skin was a deafening proclamation in the profound silence, each breath a carefully measured sip of air drawn through parted lips. Her heart hammered a frantic, rhythmic pulse agat her ribs, a wild drumbeat syncopated with the soft, hesitant pad of her bare feet on the cold wooden floor. She could feel the fine hairs on her arms rise, hyper-aware of the space around her, of the potential gaze she was desperately avoiding. A bead of sweat traced a slow, deliberate path down the valley of her spine, a cool, intimate caress that made her shiver. The rough texture of a bookcase brushed agat her fingertips as she slid past, the grain of the wood feeling like a detailed map under her touch. Somewhere in the dark, a floorboard groaned a low, mournful protest, freezing her in place, her body tensed like a drawn bowstring. The only thing louder than the fear was the aching sensitivity blooming across her flesh, every sense heightened to an almost painful acuity. In this suspended moment, the act of moving unseen became a deeply sensual, terrifyingly intimate dance with the shadows themselves.
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