Devilsfilm
Kat Dior, Danny Mountain Pic(s)
The humid evening air carried the faint, intoxicating scent of her perfume through my open window, a siren’s call I could no longer ignore. From my vantage point, I watched the silhouette of a woman moving behind the thin linen curta of the apartment across the way, her shadow a graceful dance of curves and whispered promises. Each fluid motion, a bend to pick up a discarded garment or the arch of a back as she stretched, was a private performance that set my blood humming. I remembered the solid weight of his hand on the small of my own back, a phantom touch from a time when that apartment was our shared sanctuary of tangled sheets and muffled laughter. The memory of his low, gravelly laugh echoing agat the tiles of her shower now was a sharp, jealous ache deep in my belly. She turned, her profile sharp agat the lamplight, and I could almost feel the ghost of his stubble agat my neck, the possessive grip of his fingers on my thigh. A soft, throaty moan drifted on the breeze, a sound I knew intimately, and my own skin prickled with the recollection of yielding completely to that same raw passion. It was a confession whispered not to me, but to the night itself, a testament to the desires that still pulsed, hot and unresolved, between our separate walls. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the vivid fantasy, each sense alight with the bittersweet torment of what was and what might still be.
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