Diabolic
Charly Summer, Oliver Davis Pic(s)
The worn leather of the armchair sighed beneath his weight, a familiar scent of aged cognac and sandalwood rising to meet her as she knelt. Her knees pressed into the thick wool rug, the fibers rough agat her skin, a grounding counterpoint to the trembling anticipation in her belly. His large, calloused hand, warm and heavy, came to rest on the crown of her head, fingers tangling gently in the silk of her hair. She closed her eyes, focusing on the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, a tide pulling her deeper into this intimate space. A single button of his crisp white shirt yielded to her fumbling fingers, revealing a patch of sun-weathered skin and a dusting of dark hair. She leaned forward, her parted lips meeting the warmth of his chest, tasting the faint, salty tang of his day. A low, approving rumble vibrated through him, a sound felt more than heard, and his thumb stroked a slow, deliberate arc along her temple. The world narrowed to this: the crackle of the fire, the weight of his gaze, the silent permission in the air thick as honey. Every sense was heightened, every touch a deliberate punctuation in the unspoken narrative unfolding between them.
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