Wicked
Clara Mia, Josh Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick and heavy, charged with the unspoken promise of what was to come elsewhere. His fingers, which had moments before been tracing idle patterns on the arm of the chair, now stilled completely, attuned to a distant rhythm only he could perceive. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips as he imagined the cascade of events unfolding in another part of the house, a silent narrative of touch and discovery. He could almost feel the phantom warmth of a hand sliding up a thigh, the imagined catch of a breath that was not his to hear. The light from the single lamp seemed to deepen, casting long, suggestive shadows that danced along the walls like silent spectators. His own pulse began to quicken in sympathy, a dull, steady thrum that echoed the passionate delay happening just beyond the door. The scent of her perfume, faint but persistent on the cushion beside him, became a tantalizing anchor to the reality of the interlude he was missing. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the vivid picture his mind painted of tangled limbs and hushed, urgent whispers. In that suspended moment, he was both apart from the action and utterly, intimately connected to its most private core.
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