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Freya Parker, Nikki Sweet Pic(s)
The air in the dimly lit room was thick with the scent of jasmine and anticipation, a palpable weight between our two bodies standing so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. My fingers, trembling with a nervous energy I could no longer contain, traced the delicate line of her collarbone, feeling the frantic pulse beating just beneath the surface. A soft sigh escaped her lips as I leaned in, my mouth finding the sensitive hollow of her throat, tasting the faint salt of her skin and something uniquely her. Her hands came up to cradle my face, her thumbs stroking my cheeks with a tenderness that belied the urgency coiling low in my belly. I could feel the soft crush of her breasts agat mine through the thin fabric of our dresses, a friction that sent sparks dancing along my nerves. She guided my hand downward, over the curve of her hip, her own fingers lacing with mine in a silent, desperate plea. The world outside this clandestine meeting ceased to exist, reduced to the symphony of our ragged breaths and the rustle of clothing being slowly, deliberately pushed aside. My touch finally found the warm, damp silk between her thighs, and her entire body arched into mine with a sharp, choked gasp of surrender. In that moment, we were a universe of two, lost in a language of touch and whispered promises spoken agat feverish skin.
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