Wicked
Lacy Lennon, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The fading light of dusk painted long shadows across the rumpled silk sheets, where the scent of his skin still clung to the air, a ghost of a promise now broken. Her fingers traced the cool, empty space beside her, each thread of the fabric a silent testament to his absence, while the memory of his touch—a phantom caress along her thigh—lingered like a brand upon her flesh. She could almost taste the salt of his sweat on her lips, a bitter reminder of the fervent whispers they had shared in this very bed, vows spoken between ragged breaths and tangled limbs. The distant echo of a closing door resonated deeper than any sound, a final punctuation to their shared story, as the warmth he left behind began its slow surrender to the evening’s chill. A single, stray strand of his hair on the pillow caught the last amber rays of the sun, a tiny, golden betrayal gleaming agat the white linen. Her heart, once a wild drumbeat matching his rhythm, now thudded a slow, hollow ache agat her ribs, each pulse a question left unanswered in the growing darkness. The cool air kissed her bare shoulders, raising goosebumps where his hands had so recently roamed with possessive heat, mapping the territory of her body he had sworn was his alone. In the profound quiet, the silence itself became a presence, heavy with the weight of secrets kept and trust now shattered beyond repair. She closed her eyes, not to sleep, but to let the vivid, aching images of their last union wash over her one final time, a bittersweet torment she would carry long after the night had claimed the room.
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