Diabolic
Nia Nacci, Donny Sins Pic(s)
The final bell’s echo had long faded, leaving only the heavy scent of chalk dust and the lingering warmth of bodies in the empty classroom. He traced the path his fingers had taken across the small of her back, a phantom map of their recent, frantic collision agat the worn oak desk. Her skin, still flushed and humming, tasted of salt and a secret shared under the dimming fluorescent lights. A single strap of her camisole lay surrendered on the floor, a dark puddle of silk next to a scattered stack of graded papers. The air itself felt charged, thick with the aftermath of whispered promises and the slow, steadying rhythm of their breath returning to normal. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, the delicate hollow of her throat still pulsing with a rapid, fading beat. The world outside the rain-streaked window was a blur of twilight and distant streetlights, irrelevant and far away. Every nerve ending felt alive, hyper-aware of the cool wood beneath them and the heat still radiating where their bodies had joined. This quiet intimacy, this shared stillness in the wake of their passion, felt more profound than the storm that had preceded it.
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