Wicked
Kiara Cole, John Strong Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to shimmer, thick with the scent of ozone and expensive perfume, a heady mixture that clung to the skin like a second layer of silk. Beneath the kaleidoscopic strobes, every surface became a liquid mirror, reflecting fractured glimpses of bare shoulders and the sharp, deliberate angles of artfully torn fishnet. A slow, thrumming bassline vibrated up through the soles, a primal pulse that echoed the quickening rhythm of a heart pressed close agat another in the swirling crowd. Fingers, tipped with chrome, traced a deliberate path up a spine, feeling the delicate architecture of vertebrae through the thin, iridescent fabric of a top. A whisper, hot and promising, was lost agat the shell of an ear, its meaning conveyed tead by the languid slide of a thigh agat another. Metallic eyeshadow caught the light like molten gold, framing a gaze of intense, unblinking connection that shut out the chaotic world beyond their intimate orbit. The taste of sweat and synthetic cherry gloss was a surprising, electric tang on a waiting tongue, a prelude to a kiss that was all teeth and desperate surrender. Clothes were not discarded but transformed, straps slipping to reveal the pale, perfect curve of a neck, inviting the press of hungry lips. In this cathedral of manufactured light and raw sound, two bodies moved as one, a single, breathing sculpture of desire forged in the heat of the moment.
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