Wicked
Whitney Wright, Ryan Driller Pic(s)
The fading evening light cast long shadows across the rumpled silk sheets, each crease a testament to the fervor that had so recently subsided. His scent, a heady mix of sandalwood and salt, clung stubbornly to my skin, an indelible brand from a stranger whose name I could barely recall. My fingers traced the phantom pressure of his hands on my hips, the memory of his possessive grip sending a fresh, treacherous heat coiling low in my belly. The air itself felt heavy, thick with the musk of our shared transgression and the sweet, cloying perfume I had worn for another. I could still feel the ghost of his mouth on my neck, a bruising claim that pulsed in time with my quickening heartbeat, a rhythm of pure, unadulterated betrayal. Every whispered endearment he had breathed into my ear felt like a sacrilege, a beautiful poison seeping into the foundations of a promise made to someone else. The cool night breeze from the open window did nothing to cleanse me, only stirring the scent of his satisfaction, a stark reminder of the pleasure found in another’s arms. My own body felt foreign, a landscape of newly discovered sensitivities and lingering tremors that sang a chorus of disloyalty. In the profound quiet of the aftermath, the only truth that remained was the delicious, devastating knowledge of my own willing surrender to this exquisite sin.
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