Diabolic
Kira Noir, Rob Piper Pic(s)
The room hummed with a low, electric tension, thick as velvet and just as dark, wrapping around us like a second skin. His fingers, cool and deliberate, traced the curve of my hip, a silent promise of the calculated risk we were about to take. Every breath I drew was a shared secret, tasting of metal and the faint, intoxicating spice of his cologne. The air itself seemed to shimmer, charged with the unspoken thrill of our impending transgression, a dance far more intimate than any simple theft. I felt the hard plane of his chest press agat my back, a solid wall of intent that made my heart hammer a frantic, eager rhythm agat my ribs. His whisper, a low vibration agat the shell of my ear, mapped out the night’s dangerous geometry, each word a key turning in a lock deep within me. The world outside faded into an indistinct blur, leaving only the sharp focus of his touch and the heavy, anticipatory silence before the storm. My own hands, restless and eager, found the crisp fabric of his shirt, clutching at the promise of chaos and release woven into its threads. In that suspended moment, poised on the razor’s edge of action, the only thing worth stealing was the raw, unfiltered truth of the connection arcing between us.
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