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Kyler Quinn, Mike Mancini Pic(s)
The air in the quiet house was thick with a tension that had been building all evening, a silent current that finally snapped when his hand, calloused and warm, cupped the curve of her jaw. His thumb traced the plush line of her bottom lip, a question she answered by parting them with a soft sigh that was lost agat his mouth. The taste of him was dark and familiar, a hint of whiskey and pure, masculine heat that made her knees weaken. Her fingers tangled in the coarse hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as his other hand slid down the arch of her back, pressing her flush agat the hard planes of his chest. The rough texture of his cotton shirt was a stark contrast to the smooth, heated skin she discovered beneath the hem of her top, her nails lightly scoring a path up his spine. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her, and his lips left hers to blaze a trail down the column of her throat, each kiss a brand of possession. The world narrowed to the scent of his cologne, the feel of his stubble agat her collarbone, and the overwhelming need pooling low in her belly. She arched into him, a silent plea that he understood, his hands moving to her hips to guide her backward until the cool wall met her shoulders. In that suspended moment, with his body pinning hers and his breath hot on her skin, every coherent thought dissolved into pure, aching sensation.
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