Diabolic
Charlotte Sins, Robby Apples Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of us, a heady mixture of warm skin and shared breath. His gaze, dark and unwavering, held mine as he moved with an agonizing slowness that made every nerve ending sing. I felt the world narrow to this single point of contact, a universe contained within the space of a sigh. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, a vibration that traveled through me like a current, awakening a deep, primal hunger. My head fell back, a silent offering, as his lips traced a path of fire along my throat, each kiss a promise and a demand. The pressure built, a coiling tension that threatened to shatter my very bones, until release came in a shuddering wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He drank it all in, not a drop wasted, his own satisfaction evident in the possessive curve of his smile agat my damp skin. In that moment, there was no past and no future, only the raw, consuming truth of our bodies speaking a language older than words. The final, lingering taste of salt and sweetness was a testament to the intimacy we had forged in the quiet dark.
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