Wicked
Kenna James, Seth Gamble Pic(s)
The heavy velvet curta were drawn agat the world, creating a sanctuary defined by the soft hiss of the logs in the fireplace and the whisper of skin agat high-thread-count sheets. His fingers, tracing a slow, deliberate path from the delicate hollow of her throat to the gentle curve of her hip, were not seeking but knowing, rediscovering a landscape made new by shadow and flickering amber light. Each point of contact sent a silent, shimmering current through her, a low hum of anticipation that pooled deep within her belly. The scent of him—clean sweat, sandalwood, and the faint, intoxicating sweetness of night-blooming jasmine from the open window—filled her lungs with every ragged breath. She arched into his touch, a wordless plea answered by the pressure of his palm flattening agat the small of her back, pulling her closer until not even air could separate them. The world narrowed to the slide of his thigh between hers, the rough caress of his evening stubble agat her collarbone, and the hot, open-mouthed kiss he pressed to the frantic pulse at the base of her neck. A low moan escaped her lips, not as a sound but as a vibration that traveled from her core to his, a shared secret in the enveloping darkness. He murmured her name into the shell of her ear, his voice a gravelly promise that unraveled the last of her restraint, leaving only raw, aching need. In the profound quiet that followed, broken only by the crackle of the fire and their synchronized breathing, they moved together in a rhythm as ancient and inevitable as the tide, two bodies becoming one singular, consuming flame.
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