Wicked
Ivy Sherwood, Ramon Nomar Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to shimmer, thick with a primal energy that clung to the skin like a second layer. His gaze was a physical touch, a slow, deliberate caress that traveled from the curve of a shoulder down the gentle slope of a spine, leaving a trail of invisible fire in its wake. A low, appreciative murmur rumbled from his chest, a sound that vibrated through the space between them, promising a depth of raw, untamed hunger. Fingertips, calloused yet impossibly gentle, traced the delicate architecture of a collarbone before venturing lower, exploring the soft, yielding warmth of supple flesh. The scent of their mingled arousal was a potent perfume, sweet and musky, intoxicating as it filled every breath. Every movement was a languid, deliberate dance, a silent conversation of arched backs and tangled limbs that spoke of a gathering storm. A sharp, breathless gasp escaped as his mouth found a sensitive place, his tongue a brand of wet heat that made nerves sing and muscles clench in anticipation. The world outside this cocoon of sensation dissolved into nothing, leaving only the slick slide of skin agat skin and the escalating rhythm of two heartbeats crashing together. This was a slow, deliberate unraveling, a journey into the core of a shared, burning need that promised a shattering, glorious release.
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