Diabolic
Lyla Storm, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to hold its breath, thick with the scent of her skin and the faint, expensive whisper of silk. His gaze was a slow, deliberate caress, tracing the intricate pattern of shadow and light that played upon the sheer fabric encasing her leg. Every thread was a tiny promise, a delicate barrier that heightened the anticipation of the warm, living flesh it concealed. His knuckle, moving with infinite patience, followed the subtle seam that ran from the delicate curve of her ankle up the tantalizing slope of her calf. The material yielded with a hushed sigh, a gradual loosening that felt less like an undressing and more like a profound revelation. A sliver of skin, impossibly smooth and warm, emerged from the widening gap, a secret being willingly surrendered. He could feel the faint tremor that passed through her muscle beneath his touch, a silent, electric response to his focused attention. This was a ritual of discovery, each millimeter of exposed territory more intoxicating than the last, a map of sensation being lovingly unfolded. The world had narrowed to this single, breathless point of contact, where patience and desire were woven into the same exquisite thread.
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