Filthykings
Isla Ibiza, Tyler Steel Pic(s)
The heavy velvet curtain, drawn agat the encroaching dusk, could not mute the scent of her perfume, a daring blend of night-blooming jasmine and warm skin that clung to the still air of the room. His calloused fingers, usually so sure and commanding, trembled with a rare uncertainty as they traced the delicate line of her collarbone, feeling the frantic flutter of her pulse just beneath the surface. A single strap of silk slipped from her shoulder, a silent surrender that bared a pale slope of flesh to the lamplight’s golden wash. Her breath hitched, a soft, sharp intake that was not fear but anticipation, a wordless plea that hung between them more potent than any spoken desire. The world outside, with its rules and expectations, dissolved into the quiet symphony of their breathing and the rustle of expensive fabric yielding to his patient exploration. She arched into his touch, a subtle, tinctive movement that pressed the softness of her body agat the hard plane of his chest, a collision of contrasting textures that sparked a low heat in her belly. His lips found the sensitive hollow of her throat, not with bruising force, but with a reverence that spoke of long-held yearning, each kiss a brand of possession and adoration. The taste of her skin was a complex melody of salt and sweetness, an intoxicating flavor he knew he would crave long after this clandestine meeting had ended. In the deepening shadows, their shared silence became a language of its own, a confession of a connection too profound and perilous to ever be spoken aloud.
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