Puretaboo
Scarlit Scandal, Jake Adams Pic(s)
The world outside had become a ghost, a pale and forgotten memory beyond the thick glass, but ide, the air was thick with the scent of our shared heat, a humid perfume of salt and slow-burning candle wax. His fingers, tracing the delicate cartography of my spine, were not just touch but a language, each slow drag of his calloused skin agat mine a silent promise that I was still here, still alive and feeling. The low groan that escaped his throat vibrated through my back, a primal sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the quiet room, answering a deep, aching need I had long forgotten I possessed. I arched into him, my head falling back agat his shoulder, my own breath catching as his other hand splayed across my stomach, pulling me tighter agat the solid, warm reality of his body. The faint, musky smell of his skin filled my senses, a dark and comforting anchor in the swirling uncertainty that had become our lives, a testament to something real and untamed. My fingers tangled with his where they rested on my abdomen, our grip tightening as if we were the only two people clinging to a raft in a vast, silent ocean of isolation. He buried his face in the curve of my neck, his lips finding the frantic pulse there, not to still it but to worship its wild rhythm, his breath a hot, damp counterpoint to the chill of the abandoned cityscape beyond our window. Every nerve ending felt electrified, hyper-aware, each shift of our bodies a deliberate, slow-motion dance that was both a surrender and a claiming, a desperate, beautiful rebellion agat the stillness. In that shadowed sanctuary, with the future a distant, blurred threat, we found our salvation not in light, but in the profound, consuming darkness of each other.
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