Diabolic
Kendra Spade, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun cast long amber shadows across the silk-covered bed, its fading light catching the delicate gold threads woven into the fabric. She stood by the window, the thin material of her chemise clinging to the gentle curve of her hip, a silent testament to the warmth of the day. A single bead of perspiration traced a slow, deliberate path down the column of her neck, disappearing into the shadowed hollow of her collarbone. The air itself felt heavy, thick with the scent of jasmine from the garden below and something else, something uniquely her—a faint, intoxicating musk of sandalwood and skin. Her dark eyes, when they met his, held a knowing depth, a challenge that was both an invitation and a quiet dare. The silence between them was a palpable thing, charged with unspoken words and the faint, quickening rhythm of a shared pulse. He watched the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest, each breath a soft sigh that seemed to make the very light in the room tremble. Her lips, parted just so, were a promise of sweetness and heat, a temptation that was as ancient as it was immediate. In that suspended moment, the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the electric space between their bodies and the overwhelming urge to close it.
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