Wicked
Paige Owens, Seth Gamble Pic(s)
The air itself felt thick with a primal charge, a palpable energy that hummed agat his skin as he watched her move across the dimly lit room. Each deliberate step was a silent promise, the sway of her hips a languid rhythm that echoed the quickening pulse in his ve. The simple cotton of her dress seemed to whisper agat her form, clinging to the curve of her thigh before falling away, a tantalizing hint of the heat beneath. He could smell the faint, clean scent of her skin, a fragrance of warm woman and anticipation that made his mouth go dry. Her eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, held his with an unblinking intensity, stripping away all pretense and leaving only a raw, mutual hunger. Her fingers slowly traced the line of her own collarbone, a self-possessed caress that was both an invitation and a challenge, a demonstration of the pleasure she could command. A low, soft sound escaped her lips, not quite a word but a vibration that seemed to travel through the space between them and settle deep within his core. Every rational thought began to dissolve, replaced by a single, driving need to feel the yielding softness of her body pressed agat the hard, aching tension of his own. This was the precipice, a breathless moment where the world narrowed to the space of a shared glance and the electric promise of contact.
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