Wicked
Di Devi, Michael Fly Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the unspoken language of their shared intent, a silent current that pulled them closer across the dim space. His gaze, dark and heavy with purpose, traveled over her form not as a spectator but as a cartographer mapping undiscovered terrain. She met his study with a deliberate stillness, a subtle arch of her spine that was both a question and an invitation, her skin warming under the phantom touch of his attention. The scent of her, a faint trace of night-blooming jasmine and clean perspiration, mingled with the masculine leather and salt from his skin, creating an intoxicating perfume unique to this moment. He moved then, not with haste, but with a deliberate slowness that made every second ache with anticipation, his hand finally finding the curve of her waist. A sharp, quiet intake of breath escaped her lips as his fingers pressed into her flesh, a possessive anchor in the rising tide of sensation. The fabric of her dress whispered its own protest as his other hand slid up the column of her neck, his thumb tracing the frantic pulse at its base. She leaned into the touch, her own hands finding the solid plane of his chest, feeling the powerful, rhythmic drumbeat of his heart answering the unvoiced plea of her own. In that suspended silence, every gesture, every shared breath, became a profound exploration of the raw hunger that had drawn them irrevocably together.
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