Puretaboo
Savannah Sixx, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The silence of the old house was a heavy velvet cloak, broken only by the frantic rhythm of her own heart, a trapped bird beating agat her ribs. A sliver of cold moonlight cut across the rumpled sheets, illuminating the pale curve of her shoulder as she twisted in the damp heat of the bed. Every whisper of the ancient floorboards was a phantom caress, a promise of something lurking just beyond the edge of vision. She could feel the ghost of a touch, not on her skin, but deep within, a slow, coiling tension that mirrored the creaking of the stairs. The scent of her own arousal, musky and sweet, mingled with the dust of forgotten years, a potent incense offered to the shadows. Her fingers traced a path down her stomach, a desperate attempt to soothe the ache that throbbed in time with the house’s subtle groans. Each breath was a shallow gasp, the air thick with the anticipation of a presence she could not see, a lover made of darkness and memory. The line between fear and desire blurred into a single, sharp point of need, a craving for a release that felt both dangerous and inevitable. In that suspended moment, waiting for a footfall that never came, her entire body became a single, yearning nerve, alive with a terrifying and exquisite hunger.
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