Evilangel
Sybil, Maximo Garcia Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken with the scent of orange blossoms and warm leather, a heady perfume that clung to the stillness of the Andalusian night. She moved with a liquid grace that was neither a dance nor a walk but a deliberate, hypnotic invitation, the silk of her gown whispering secrets agat her skin with every subtle shift of her hips. His gaze, dark and accustomed to command, found itself trapped by the pale curve of her neck, by the knowing smile that played upon her lips like a promise. A single, deliberate finger traced the intricate silver embroidery on his jacket, the touch a brand of heat that seeped through the fabric to ignite the flesh beneath. He could feel the powerful rhythm of his own heart begin to syncopate, losing its steady march to the languid, pulsing tempo she exuded without a word. Her voice, when it finally came, was a low murmur that vibrated not through the air but directly through his bones, a spell woven of velvet and shadow. The space between them diminished not by his step or hers, but by an invisible force drawing them together, closing the gap until the heat of her body was a palpable wave agat his. In the profound quiet, the soft exhalation of her breath agat his jaw was a more potent summons than any trumpet’s call, a silent language of surrender and conquest. He was no longer a man of stone and will but a vessel being filled with her presence, every resistance melting like wax beneath a relentless, beautiful flame.
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