Diabolic
Daya Knight, Isiah Maxwell Pic(s)
The polished wooden floorboards gleam under the soft, focused light of a single desk lamp, its warm glow carving out an intimate island in the vast, shadowy classroom. He stands before her, the crisp white of his shirt a stark, tempting contrast agat the deep twilight hue of his skin, the fabric stretched taut across the breadth of his shoulders. Her gaze travels downward, tracing the elegant line of his spine to where his tailored trousers hug the powerful curve of his hips. A faint, clean scent of sandalwood and starched cotton hangs in the quiet air between them, a silent promise of what is to come. She reaches out, her fingers barely grazing the cool, smooth leather of his belt, feeling the solid warmth of his abdomen beneath. His breath catches, a soft, sharp intake that is the only sound in the profound stillness, his dark eyes holding hers with an intensity that steals the air from her lungs. Her thumb finds the cold, hard metal of the buckle, and with a deliberate, slow pressure, she beg to work it open. The quiet rasp of the leather sliding free is deafening, a prelude to the whisper of fabric as the waistband loosens its hold. A shiver of anticipation courses through her, electric and warm, as the final barrier between them yields to her touch.
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