Evilangel
Cherie DeVille, Brock Cooper Pic(s)
The air in the dimly lit foyer was thick with the scent of his expensive cologne, a warm spice that seemed to cling to the very walls. He leaned agat the doorframe, his gaze a slow, deliberate caress that traveled from the hesitant curve of a smile down to the nervous flutter of fingers. A knowing smirk played upon his lips as he extended a hand, not for a key, but to gently brush a stray lock of hair from a flushed cheek, his knuckles grazing skin softer than silk. The simple touch sent a jolt of electricity through the quiet space, a silent promise that made the heart stammer agat its cage. His voice, when it finally came, was a low, resonant murmur that vibrated through the floorboards, suggesting a discussion about the lease terms that required a more private setting. He moved closer, the fine wool of his suit brushing agat a thin cotton sleeve, his presence an intoxicating heat that pushed back the evening’s chill. The world outside the leaded glass window seemed to blur and fade, irrelevant compared to the magnetic pull drawing them toward the grand staircase. Every whispered word was a deliberate stroke, unraveling inhibitions as skillfully as one might untie a delicate ribbon. In that suspended moment, the line between a business arrangement and a deeply personal invitation dissolved into the shadows he commanded so effortlessly.
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