Wicked
Maya Kendrick, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The familiar weight of anticipation settled low in her belly as the final lock clicked open, a sound swallowed by the thick, velvet-draped silence of the chamber. He stood across the room, a silhouette carved from shadow and firelight, his gaze a physical touch that stripped away the months of absence in a single, searing glance. Every step forward was a deliberate surrender, the rustle of silk agat her skin a whisper compared to the roaring pulse in her ears. The scent of him, sandalwood and clean sweat, filled her lungs, an intoxicating perfume that promised a forgotten language of touch. His fingers, when they finally met the bare curve of her shoulder, were not gentle but possessive, a brand of heat that made her knees weaken. A low sound escaped her throat, part sigh and part plea, as his thumb traced the frantic beat at the base of her neck. The world narrowed to this: the rough texture of his waistcoat agat her cheek, the solid strength of his chest beneath her palms, the unspoken challenge in his hooded eyes. This was not a beginning but a reclaiming, a deep, primal rhythm rediscovered in the space of a shared breath. And as his mouth finally found hers, the taste was not of novelty, but of a long-lost homecoming, devastating and complete.
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