Filthykings
Kitten Latenight, Peter Green Pic(s)
The room was thick with the scent of jasmine and the slow, deliberate burn of a single candle, its flame casting long, dancing shadows that licked the walls like silent, hungry tongues. She moved with a liquid grace that was entirely new, a deliberate, swaying rhythm that made the silk of her robe whisper secrets agat her skin with every step. Her gaze, usually so direct and wifely, was now hooded and distant, fixed on some unseen point beyond her husband’s shoulder as if watching a phantom performance. A knowing smile, small and utterly private, played upon her lips, a silent testament to a rendezvous her mind was already reliving. The air itself seemed charged with the memory of another’s touch, the ghost of a stranger’s hands still mapping the delicate curve of her hip beneath the thin fabric. Each breath she drew was a little too deep, a little too slow, as if her lungs were still filled with the intoxicating musk of a clandestine embrace. The simple gold band on her finger felt suddenly cold and heavy, a stark, metallic contrast to the warmth blooming low in her belly, a heat ignited by a secret she held clenched between her teeth. He watched, a confused spectator in his own home, as she arched her back in a languid stretch, a feline gesture that was pure, unadulterated provocation. In that single, stretched-out moment, the entire architecture of their marriage shifted, not with a shout, but with the devastating silence of her satisfied, treacherous contentment.
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