Wicked
Whitney Wright, Jake Adams Pic(s)
The fading warmth of his touch still lingered on her skin like a ghost as she watched the door click shut, the sound echoing in the sudden silence of the room. Her breath hitched, catching on the memory of whispered promises that now felt like shards of glass in her throat. The air, once thick with the scent of their shared passion and his cologne, now carried the cold, metallic tang of deceit. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his hands on her hips, a cruel mockery of the embrace that had, moments before, made her feel utterly claimed. A single tear traced a hot path down her cheek, its salt a stark contrast to the sweet taste of him that still clung to her lips. The rumpled sheets, a testament to their abandoned fervor, now seemed only a landscape of her own foolish trust, each crease a map of her misplaced devotion. Her heart, which had soared with a wild, frantic rhythm agat his chest, now contracted into a cold, heavy stone in the cavern of her ribs. The world outside the window continued, indifferent to the quiet cataclysm unfolding within these four walls, where the most intimate of unions had fractured into a solitary, aching void. She wrapped her arms around herself, the silk of her slip feeling like a stranger’s skin, a poor substitute for the sanctuary she had so briefly and mistakenly believed she had found.
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