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Syren De Mer, Randy Moore Pic(s)
The heavy velvet drapes were drawn agat the encroaching city, creating a sanctuary lit only by the low, amber glow of a single lamp. Its light caressed the curve of her spine as she arched agat the rumpled silk sheets, a soft gasp escaping her lips to mingle with the distant hum of traffic far below. His hands, warm and possessive, traced a slow, deliberate path from the delicate wings of her shoulder blades down to the swell of her hips, mapping the landscape of her desire. The scent of their mingled sweat and her fading perfume hung in the still air, an intoxicating testament to the hours already spent in exploration. Every whispered promise and every bite of passion had been a prelude to this moment of suspended anticipation, a coiled tension that promised a shattering release. She could feel the hard plane of his chest agat her back, the steady, thunderous rhythm of his heart a primal drumbeat agat her skin. His mouth found the sensitive hollow where her neck met her shoulder, not with gentleness, but with a raw, claiming pressure that made her fingers clutch at the bedding. The world beyond the window ceased to exist, the entire universe shrinking to the space of this lavish room, to the feeling of his breath hot on her skin and the demanding pressure of his body agat hers. In the dim, golden light, their shadows merged into a single, fluid shape upon the wall, a silent, writhing portrait of consummated longing.
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