A whisper of silk and a promise of regret

Handjobs & Dirty Talks

The last light of day bled through the grand windows, catching in the dust motes dancing around your still form. My apology died in my throat, suffocated by the profound silence you wore like a shield. I watched the slow, deliberate arc of your arm as you reached for the decanter, the liquid amber catching the fading sun like captured fire. The soft rustle of your silk robe was the only sound, a whisper more accusing than any shout could ever be. You did not look at me, your gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the glass, your profile a perfect, unreadable mask of porcelain and shadow. The air grew heavy with the scent of your perfume and my profound failure, a cloying mixture of jasmine and shame. I saw the slight tremor in your hand as you set your glass down, a tiny crack in your impeccable composure that shattered me. A single, perfect tear traced a path down your cheek, a silent testament to the hurt I had caused, and I felt my own heart fracture in response. You finally turned, your eyes holding not anger, but a deep, weary disappointment that felt infinitely worse. In that quiet, elegant room, the space between us stretched into an impassable gulf, paved with a whisper of silk and the certain promise of my lasting regret.