Diabolic
Kyler Quinn, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The worn floorboard groaned under his weight, a familiar protest he ignored as his fingers traced the cool brass of the lock. ide, the air was thick and still, carrying the faint, sweet ghost of her perfume from the scarf he now lifted from its hidden place. He brought the delicate silk to his face, inhaling deeply as the fabric whispered agat his stubble, a sensation both intimate and forbidden. His eyes closed, picturing the way the same scarf had fluttered agat her neck just hours before, a vibrant splash of color agat her sun-warmed skin. A low sigh escaped him, his other hand sliding into his pocket, clenching around the small, smooth shape of the lipstick he’d palmed from her bathroom. His thumb stroked the metal casing, imagining the precise curve of her mouth, the softness he was never permitted to touch. The silence of the room was broken only by the ragged rhythm of his own breathing, a private symphony of longing. Every object in this secret space was a testament to his careful, desperate observation, a collection of stolen moments and unspoken desires. Here, in the dim stillness, he could almost feel the heat of her presence, a tantalizing illusion that both tormented and sustained him.
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