Zerotolerancefilms
Mona Azar, Van Wylde Pic(s)

The late afternoon sun slashed through the blinds, painting hot stripes across the rumpled silk of the duvet where she lay, not in languid repose, but in a state of delicious, breathless anticipation. His shadow fell over her first, a cool contrast to the sun’s warmth, and the scent of his cologne, something dark and spicy, filled the space between them, erasing the familiar traces of her everyday life. A single, calloused finger traced the delicate line of her collarbone, a touch so light it was almost a thought, yet it sent a visible shudder through her entire body. She arched her back tinctively, a silent plea for more, her nails digging into the expensive fabric beneath her as his mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. The low, approving groan that rumbled from his chest vibrated agat her skin, a primal sound that spoke of possession and a hunger that matched her own. Her fingers tangled in the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, wanting to drown in the illicit thrill of this encounter, in the sheer wrongness that made it feel so profoundly right. Every whispered promise he breathed agat her ear was a key unlocking a part of her she kept tightly chained, a wildness that her sanctioned life had long since suppressed. The world outside, with its manicured lawns and silent judgments, ceased to exist, replaced by the symphony of their ragged breathing and the creak of the bed accepting a new, urgent rhythm. This was not about love or obligation; it was a raw, greedy reclaiming of sensation, a secret stolen in the golden light of a dying day.
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