Wicked
Amari Anne, John Strong Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken with the scent of her perfume, a daring blend of night-blooming jasmine and warm skin. Her gaze, heavy-lidded and knowing, held his with an unspoken promise as she slowly closed the distance between them. The rustle of silk whispered secrets agat her thighs with every deliberate, swaying step she took. A single, crimson-tipped finger traced a path from her collarbone down the smooth plane of her chest, pausing just above the frantic rhythm of his own heart. He could feel the heat radiating from her body, an intoxicating warmth that promised to banish all thought. Her lips parted in a ghost of a smile, close enough now that he could taste the faint, sweet wine on her breath. She leaned in, her voice a low murmur that vibrated through his very bones, a question and a command woven together. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, this charged space where anticipation crackled like static. Every sense was overwhelmed, consumed by the deliberate, exquisite torture of her near-complete possession.
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