Burningangel
Samantha Mack, Isiah Maxwell Pic(s)
The heavy silk of her gown pooled like spilled cream upon the floor, a forgotten vow as her fingers, still adorned with cold, new metal, tangled fiercely in the hair of a stranger whose name was a whisper lost agat her skin. His mouth was a brand of salt and want, tracing a fevered path down the column of her throat, each kiss a deliberate erasure of the day’s hollow ceremonies. The scent of him, of night air and clean sweat, filled her lungs, a potent antidote to the cloying perfume of roses that had haunted her for hours. Her back arched agat the firm pressure of his palm, a silent plea answered by the low groan that vibrated from his chest into hers, a primal language she understood perfectly. The delicate lace straps were pushed aside not with ceremony, but with a hungry urgency that sent a shiver of pure anticipation coursing through her. In the dim light, his hands were not gentle; they were possessive, mapping the territory of her hips and waist with a certainty that felt more like truth than any promise spoken before an altar. She met his roughness with her own, her nails scoring faint, pale lines across the taut muscles of his shoulders, claiming him as he claimed her. The world narrowed to this single room, to the slick heat of their bodies moving in a rhythm as old as time, a desperate, beautiful collision. This was no timid surrender, but a glorious, sweat-sheened conquest where she finally, completely, belonged only to the raw, aching present.
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