Indian Fury: A Tale of Taboo Temptation

Raw White Meat

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The Moscow air was crisp, carrying the distant scent of frost and old stone as she stood, a vibrant silhouette against the pale city lights. His approach was not a question but a quiet statement, his large, warm hand finding the small of her back with an unspoken understanding. A shiver, entirely separate from the cold, traced its way up her spine as his other hand cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking the line of her cheekbone with a reverence that stole her breath. Her own hands found the solid strength of his shoulders, her fingers curling into the coarse wool of his coat as he drew her closer. The world narrowed to the space between them, filled with the sound of their shared, unsteady breaths and the frantic drum of her heart. When his lips finally met hers, it was a slow, deliberate conflagration, a tasting and a claiming that left her feeling utterly unraveled. He was a storm of gentle intensity, his body a shelter and a demand, moving against her with a rhythm that felt both ancient and entirely new. A single, soundless sob of pure emotion caught in her throat as the tension broke, a wave of overwhelming sensation that left her trembling and weak-kneed against him. In the profound quiet that followed, he rested his forehead against hers, his breath warm on her flushed skin, a silent communion in the hushed night. A single, salty tear traced a path through the lingering warmth on her cheek, a perfect, poignant end to a forbidden fantasy fulfilled.