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Monique Alexander, Sativa Rose Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to shimmer with a new, unspoken heat, thick with the scent of her perfume and the faint, clean smell of her skin. Her fingers, tentative at first, traced a path from my wrist to the ide of my elbow, a whisper of contact that sent a jolt straight to my core. I watched, mesmerized, as her gaze dropped to my lips, her own parting slightly with a soft, audible breath. When her palm finally settled flat agat the small of my back, the warmth seeped through the thin fabric of my dress, a claiming touch that pulled me infinitesimally closer. The distance between our bodies vanished, and I felt the firm, yielding pressure of her breasts agat mine, a perfect alignment that made my heart hammer agat my ribs. She dipped her head, and her lips found the sensitive hollow of my throat, not a kiss but a slow, open-mouthed press that stole the air from my lungs. A low sound, half sigh and half moan, escaped me as her other hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back to expose more of my neck to her exploration. Every nerve ending was alive, singing with the electricity of this intimacy, a language my body understood better than my mind ever could. In that suspended moment, a deep, primal part of me I had long ignored unfurled, awakening to a desire as natural as breathing.
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