Diabolic
Chloe Cherry, Isiah Maxwell Pic(s)
The humid air clung to the silent house, thick with the scent of his cologne and the lingering sweetness of my perfume, a forbidden cocktail that made my head spin. His gaze was a physical weight, a dark, smoldering intensity that tracked my every hesitant movement from across the dimly lit room, stripping away the thin pretense of familial obligation. I could feel the heat radiating from his powerful frame even from a distance, a magnetic pull that made my skin prickle with a dangerous awareness. The low rumble of his voice, when he finally spoke my name, was not a question but a command, vibrating through the floorboards and settling deep in the pit of my stomach. My own breath hitched as I took an involuntary step forward, drawn by the promise of rough, calloused hands and the sweat-sheened expanse of his chest. This was the line we had sworn never to cross, a sacred trust shattered by the raw, undeniable hunger reflected in his eyes, a mirror of my own desperate need. The cool wall met my back, a sudden shock of reality as he closed the final distance, his body caging me in with an intoxicating blend of dominance and desire. Every rational thought screamed for me to push him away, to flee from the consequences of this moment, but my traitorous body arched toward him, a silent surrender to the inevitable. His lips were a breath away from mine, the taste of his exhale a dark, addictive spice, and in that suspended second, I knew I was willingly trading my loyalty for a single, devastating touch.
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