Wicked
Kenzie Taylor, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, metallic tang of anticipation, a perfume of hidden things. His gaze, a slow and deliberate caress, traced the delicate line of her collarbone where a single bead of sweat began its languid journey south. The silence between them was not empty but charged, a palpable force that hummed with every unspoken confession. Her fingers, trembling slightly, found the cool brass of a lamp switch, and the sudden pool of golden light carved their shadows into giants upon the wall. A low whisper escaped his lips, not a word but a sound, a vibration that seemed to stroke the very air between them. She arched her back, a silent offering, as his hand finally made contact, the heat of his palm searing through the thin silk of her blouse. Every nerve ending sang a chorus of yes as his thumb found the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, a trapped bird beating agat his touch. The world outside the circle of light ceased to exist, reduced to the symphony of their breathing and the rustle of fabric yielding to an istent pressure. In that suspended moment, the last fragile barrier of pretense dissolved, leaving only the raw, breathtaking truth of skin agat hungry skin.
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