Diabolic
Sarah Vandella, Tyler Nixon Pic(s)
The lamplight spilled across the desk, catching the dust motes dancing in the warm, still air like tiny, suspended stars. Her voice was a low, melodic hum as she leaned closer, the scent of her perfume—something dark and floral like night-blooming jasmine—wrapping around my senses. The soft rustle of her silk blouse was the only sound as she shifted, the fabric straining gently agat the generous curve of her chest with each breath. My gaze was drawn to the subtle movement, the way the light and shadow played across the swell of her breasts, hinting at the soft, heavy warmth beneath the delicate material. A single, stray lock of hair fell across her cheek, and she slowly tucked it behind her ear, her fingers lingering near the sensitive shell. The heat from her body seemed to radiate towards me, a palpable force that made the air thick and sweet. I could almost feel the phantom weight of her gaze, heavy-lidded and knowing, as it traveled from the textbook to my face, reading the hunger I couldn’t conceal. Her full lips curved into a faint, understanding smile, promising a lesson far more intimate than any equation. In that suspended moment, the entire world narrowed to the space between us, charged with a silent, aching potential.
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