Devilsfilm
Coco Lovelock, Charles Dera Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun, heavy and golden, poured through the dusty library window, illuminating the motes of ancient paper and skin that danced in the air between them. His finger, tracing a line of faded text on the page, stilled as he felt the warmth of her gaze more than saw it, a palpable heat that crept up the side of his neck. She shifted on the leather-bound bench, the soft sigh of her movement and the whisper of her skirt the only sounds in the hushed silence. A single strand of her hair, escaped from its tie, brushed agat the back of his hand, a touch as light as a moth’s wing yet sending a jolt straight to his core. He dared to turn his head, finding her lips parted slightly, her eyes dark pools of invitation that held a knowledge far beyond the books surrounding them. The scent of her, a faint mix of vanilla and the crispness of the autumn air clinging to her sweater, filled his senses, drowning out the smell of old leather and ink. His own breath hitched as her knee, seemingly by accident, pressed firmly agat his thigh beneath the solid oak table, a point of contact that burned through layers of denim. The intellectual pretense of their study session evaporated, replaced by a thick, electric tension that made the very air seem to hum. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the space where their bodies almost touched, a silent, aching promise of what was to come.
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