Diabolic
Anne Amari, Isiah Maxwell Pic(s)
The room breathed with the heat of bodies moving in shadowed rhythm, a low hum of desire thickening the air between them. His gaze traveled the lush, undulating landscape before him, a vision of rounded, dusky curves gleaming under the faint, amber light. Each slow, deliberate movement was a silent poem, a hypnotic sway that pulled him deeper into the moment. The smooth, dark skin caught the glow, highlighting the powerful, graceful arch and the deep, inviting cleft. A sheen of perspiration made the surface glisten like polished obsidian, tempting his touch. He could almost feel the latent heat radiating from those magnificent globes, a warmth that promised to sear his palms. The air itself seemed to pulse in time with their motion, charged with an unspoken, primal understanding. His breath hitched as he watched the muscles tense and release, a dance of pure, unadulterated sensuality. In that suspended, breathless space, there was only the sight of this beautiful form and the overwhelming need to get closer, to feel that warmth yield beneath his fingers.
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