Diabolic
Maya Woulfe, Marcus London Pic(s)
The dim lamplight carved hollows beneath his collarbones as he leaned forward, the scent of old leather and clean sweat clinging to his shirt. Her gaze traced the weary lines around his eyes, each one a map of years she hadn’t shared, and her breath hitched when his calloused thumb brushed a stray tear from her cheek. The gesture was paternal, yet the electric current it sent skittering down her spine was anything but. His voice, a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards, spoke of regrets and roads not taken, but all she could focus on was the faint pulse visible at the base of his throat. The space between them on the worn sofa felt charged, a tangible silence thick with unspoken histories and a dangerous, burgeoning understanding. She watched his lips form the careful words, each syllable a deliberate weight, and imagined the taste of the whiskey lingering there. Her own heart hammered agat her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to his measured calm, as she inched her bare foot until it just grazed the denim of his jeans. A sharp intake of breath, his or hers she couldn’t tell, fractured the moment, and the air itself seemed to shimmer with the heat of this fragile, forbidden confession. In that suspended silence, the quiet comfort of the room transformed into an arena of thrilling, terrifying possibility.
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