Webyoung
Jessie Saint, Daya Knight Pic(s)
A deep, primal warmth began to bloom within her, a slow and deliberate unfurling that mirrored the languid dance of flames in the hearth. The scent of pine and spiced wine clung to the air, a heady perfume that seemed to seep into her very skin, intoxicating her senses with every soft, shared breath. His fingers traced a path along the sensitive curve of her neck, a whisper of contact that sent shivers cascading down her spine like a cascade of crystalline snow. The low, golden light gilded the planes of his shoulders, casting long, shifting shadows that moved in a silent, intimate rhythm agat the wall. She could feel the solid, steady beat of his heart beneath her palm, a counterpoint to the frantic, fluttering pulse at her own wrist, a silent conversation of desire. A low murmur, rich and resonant, vibrated agat her lips before they met his in a kiss that tasted of winter nights and sweet, dark honey. The heavy wool of the blanket beneath them was a rough contrast to the impossible softness of his touch as his hand slid lower, a possessive heat branding her through the thin fabric of her dress. Every rational thought dissolved like a snowflake on a warm pane of glass, leaving only the raw, aching need that pooled, hot and heavy, deep in her belly. This was a celebration not of the world outside, but of the secret, smoldering fire they kindled together, a sacred ritual of touch and whispered promises in the quiet dark.
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