Devilsfilm
Jennifer White, Lala Ivey Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun, a molten gold, streamed through the slats of the blinds, painting tiger stripes across their entangled forms. Her fingers, tracing the delicate ridge of a collarbone, felt the frantic flutter of a pulse just beneath the skin, a wild bird beating agat its cage. A soft sigh escaped parted lips, a sound that was less a word and more a tangible warmth that bloomed in the scant space between their mouths. The scent of their mingled perspiration was an intoxicating perfume of salt and summer peaches, clinging to the humid air. Every shift of weight, every press of hip agat hip, was a slow, deliberate conversation spoken in a language older than words. The world outside, with its distant hum of traffic and forgotten responsibilities, had dissolved into an indistinct blur, a mere backdrop to the exquisite focus of this shared sanctuary. The gentle scrape of a nail down a sensitive spine elicited a sharp, breathy gasp that was swallowed by a hungry, exploring mouth. In the half-light, their bodies were a landscape of soft curves and yielding planes, a map of desire being charted with each new, intimate discovery. This was a universe contained within the four walls of the room, a secret symphony of touch and sensation building towards its inevitable, shattering crescendo.
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