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Maya Woulfe, Stirling Cooper Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of him, a musky perfume of salt and skin that clung to my tongue. His hands, which had moments before traced frantic, possessive maps across my body, now lay still and heavy, discarded anchors on the rumpled shore of the sheets. I watched the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, a rhythm of satiated oblivion that felt like a deliberate dismissal. The memory of his mouth, hot and demanding agat my neck, was already cooling into a phantom imprint, a story he was clearly finished reading. Moonlight, pale and indifferent, spilled through the window, glazing the sweat-sheened plane of his back in a cold, silver veneer. Every fiber of my being still hummed with the raw, electric current he had sparked, a live wire left dangling and dangerously exposed. He had taken the offering of my fervor, consumed it with a greedy, single-minded hunger that left me feeling hollowed out and used. Now, in the profound quiet, the only sound was the soft sigh of his breath, a peaceful exhalation that seemed to mock the frantic tempo of my own heart. A cold knot tightened deep within me, not of regret for the pleasure given, but for the profound, echoing silence that was his only reciprocation.
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