Diabolic
Karma RX, Lucas Frost Pic(s)
The leather of the couch was cool and smooth agat my bare shoulders, a stark contrast to the warmth of his palm as it settled, with deliberate weight, on my ankle. His fingers, previously occupied with the sterile click of a pen, now traced a slow, exploratory path up the tendon of my calf, each movement a silent, unauthorized question. The air, usually thick with the scent of old books and antiseptic, now carried the faint, clean aroma of his skin, a hint of soap and something uniquely masculine. My breath hitched, catching in my throat as his thumb pressed into the soft hollow behind my knee, a point of contact that sent a shiver radiating through my entire body. The professional distance in his eyes had melted away, replaced by an intense, focused heat that seemed to see past all my constructed defenses. I could feel the steady, strong pulse at his wrist where it brushed agat my skin, a rhythm that began to sync with the frantic beating of my own heart. The world outside the dimly lit office, with its distant traffic hum, faded into an indistinct murmur, unimportant next to the sound of his slow, measured inhalation. Every nerve ending felt alive, hyper-aware of the space between us shrinking, charged with an unspoken anticipation that was both terrifying and exhilarating. This was no longer a session of analysis, but a surrender to a primal, wordless understanding that unfolded in the quiet space between one heartbeat and the next.
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