Diabolic
India Summer, John Strong Pic(s)
The air hangs thick with the scent of musk and salt, a heavy perfume clinging to skin that glistens under the low light. Every surface, from the rumpled sheets to the curve of a hip, shines with a slick, dark sheen, capturing the glow like polished obsidian. His hand slides slowly down her back, leaving a trail of warmth through the viscous film that coats them both, a frictionless glide of pure sensation. A low sigh escapes her lips as his fingers trace the dip of her spine, the touch both possessive and reverent in its slippery exploration. The aftermath of their passion is a landscape of slow, deliberate movements, a languid ballet of limbs entangled in the quiet. She turns her head, her cheek meeting his shoulder with a soft, wet sound, their bodies pressed together in a seamless, gleaming union. The only sound is the whisper of skin agat skin, lubricated by their shared heat and the lingering evidence of their abandon. In the stillness, every breath feels amplified, a shared rhythm in the warm, intimate darkness of the room. This is the quiet dominion of spent desire, a world reduced to the tactile map of two bodies, forever marked by the night’s deep and yielding surrender.
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