Wicked
April Olsen, Jay Romero Pic(s)
The scent of him, a familiar mix of clean linen and warm skin, still clung to her senses as her gaze locked with the stranger across the room, a silent challenge passing between them. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, promised a different kind of tempest, one of untamed passion and whispered secrets. A slow, deliberate smile curved his lips as he closed the distance, the air thickening with an unspoken hunger that made her heart hammer agat her ribs. His fingers, when they finally brushed agat the small of her back, were not tentative but possessive, a brand of heat searing through the thin silk of her dress. She felt a shiver, not of cold, but of pure anticipation, a thrilling fracture in the loyalty she had worn like a second skin. The low murmur of his voice was a vibration agat her ear, a dark melody that spoke of tangled sheets and forgotten promises. In that moment, the memory of another’s touch became a ghost, fading under the intense, palpable reality of this new desire. She leaned into his solid strength, her body making a choice her mind had yet to articulate, surrendering to the intoxicating pull of the unknown. The world narrowed to the space where their bodies almost met, a charged silence screaming with the beginning of something beautifully, dangerously illicit.
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