Strands of Sin

 

Strands of Sin

The club pulsed with music, deep bass reverberating through the air, setting the rhythm of the night. Dim, colored lights flickered, catching the gleam of moving bodies, of clinking glasses, of lips parted in quiet invitation. But amidst the chaos, she was stillness—commanding, effortless, intoxicating.

She leaned against the bar, one hand resting on the polished wood, the other lazily toying with a lock of her impossibly long, dark hair. It tumbled past her shoulders, past her waist, thick and sleek, clinging to her curves like a second skin. The crimson dress she wore hugged her perfectly, the high slit exposing a smooth, toned thigh, the low neckline a promise of everything forbidden.

A single strand had fallen across her chest, draped like a teasing whisper over the bare swell of her skin. She let it linger there, her fingers tracing the length slowly, deliberately, before brushing it back. The motion was unhurried, almost lazy, but it sent a ripple through the heavy mass, making the strands slide over her back, her shoulders, her hips.

She turned her head, and the movement alone was enough to send her hair cascading in a perfect, slow-motion wave, brushing against the curve of her spine, catching the dim light in glistening strands. She gathered it all to one side, twisting it idly in her hands, wrapping the thick locks around her fingers, around her wrist, before letting them slip free, unraveling like temptation itself.

The DJ dropped a new beat, and she swayed, rolling her hips to the rhythm, her hair following like liquid silk, clinging and releasing, whispering against the fabric of her dress, against her skin.

A man beside her shifted, mesmerized, unable to look away.

She turned toward him, slow, knowing. A smirk played on her lips as she reached up, twisting her hair high into a loose bun, exposing the graceful column of her throat, the bare skin of her back. She held it there for just a moment—just long enough to let him wonder what it might feel like wrapped around his fingers.

And then, just as effortlessly, she let it fall.

A dark curtain of silk, sliding over her shoulders, down her spine, over her curves, settling once more into its rightful place—shameless, untamed, undeniable.

She met his gaze, lifting a single brow.

Keep up… if you can.

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