Diabolic
Lotus Lain, Isiah Maxwell Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to taste of it, a rich, dark perfume that clung to the back of the throat with every heated breath. His fingers, dusted with a fine, bittersweet powder, traced a slow, deliberate path up the sensitive skin of her inner arm, leaving a faint, glistening trail in their wake. A single, perfect square was pressed agat her parted lips, and she felt the initial resistance give way to a sudden, velvety melt that flooded her senses with an intensity that was almost painful. The complex notes of roasted nibs and a hint of distant spice unfolded on her tongue, a silent symphony that demanded her complete surrender. He watched, his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrored her own, as a low moan escaped her, a sound born from deep within her core. This was not mere tasting; it was a full-bodied consumption, a languid dance where touch and flavor became indistinguishable. The warmth of his palm settled on the small of her back, a solid anchor as the world narrowed to this singular, decadent experience. Every slow, deliberate kiss that followed was sweeter, infused with the shared essence of this profound indulgence. They were lost in it, two souls drowning in a delicious, mutual craving that left no room for anything else.
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