Wicked
India Summer, Michael Vegas Pic(s)
The heat of his hand on the small of her back was a map of a territory she had spent a lifetime trying to forget, yet now she leaned into its pressure as if it were the only true north. His breath, warm and smelling faintly of whiskey and mint, ghosted across her temple, a whisper of permission that unraveled years of tightly-wound silence. She let her fingers trace the coarse wool of his sweater, feeling the solid, unyielding muscle beneath, a wall she had once feared but now longed to scale. A low murmur escaped his throat, a sound that vibrated through her own chest, awakening a dormant hunger that coiled deep in her belly. The dim light caught the silver at his temples, and she saw not age, but a strength that had been forged in fires similar to her own, a recognition that passed between them without a single word. Her own breath hitched as his thumb stroked a slow, deliberate arc just above the waistband of her jeans, a promise of something more primal than pity, more healing than forgiveness. The world outside the window, with its distant city hum, faded into ignificance agat the roaring in her ears, the pounding of her own pulse becoming a drumbeat for this long-awaited rebellion. She arched into him, her body a question he answered by tightening his embrace, pulling her so close she could feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart agat her breast. In that singular, suspended moment, the past was not erased, but rather rewritten in the language of skin and shared warmth, a silent testament to the power of choosing a different kind of touch.
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