Zerotolerancefilms
Eliza Ibarra, Lucas Frost Pic(s)
The humid summer air clung to her skin like a second silk chemise as she slowly ascended the creaking staircase, each step a deliberate, silent promise. Her bare feet sank into the plush wool of the runner, a stark contrast to the cool, smooth banister beneath her trembling fingertips. From behind the partially open door at the hall’s end, a low, rhythmic sound pulsed, a muffled metronome that seemed to sync with the quickening beat in her chest. She paused on the threshold, her breath catching as the scent of him—clean cotton, warm skin, and a faint hint of cedar—drifted out to envelop her. Pushing the door open just enough to slip through, she found him bathed in the amber glow of a single desk lamp, his broad back tense, his head bowed in concentration. The focus in his posture was a palpable force, a magnetic pull that drew her across the room until she stood close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. He didn’t turn, but a slight tremor in his shoulders acknowledged her presence, his entire being a coiled spring of anticipation. Leaning forward, she brought her lips to within an inch of his ear, her exhale a ghost of a whisper agat his neck. In that suspended moment, the only sound was the sharp, final click of a metal file being set down on the wooden desk, a punctuation mark to the exquisite tension.
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