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Alex Coal, Celestina Blooms Pic(s)
The first touch was not of skin, but of sight, a slow, deliberate tracing of curves that mapped the territory of desire before a single finger had even lifted. Her gaze, heavy with unspoken promise, traveled the length of my arm, over the gentle slope of my shoulder, and came to rest on the vulnerable hollow of my throat. I felt my breath catch, a silent offering as she finally closed the distance, her palm a warm weight agat my collarbone. The scent of her, jasmine and warm skin, filled the space between us, an intoxicating perfume that made my head swim. Her fingers, impossibly soft, began a slow exploration, tracing the line of my jaw before her thumb brushed my lower lip, parting it with a pressure that was both question and command. A low sound escaped me, half-sigh, half-plea, as she leaned in, her hair a dark curtain that shut out the world, leaving only the heat of her body and the promise of her mouth. When her lips met mine, it was not a collision but a merging, a slow, deep tasting that spoke of infinite patience and gathering hunger. I could feel the frantic beat of her heart agat my own chest, a wild rhythm that echoed through my entire being, melting the last vestiges of thought into pure sensation. In that suspended moment, there was only the liquid fire of her tongue and the yielding softness of everything I was, opening to her completely.
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