Wicked
Whitney Wright, Derrick Pierce Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of old leather and anticipation, a heady perfume that clung to the skin. He moved with a predator’s grace, his shadow a long, possessive caress agat the far wall as he closed the distance between them. Her breath hitched, a silent surrender as his knuckles, dusted with the faint, metallic memory of the city, brushed the sensitive curve of her neck. The low thrum of distant traffic became a primal drumbeat, syncing with the frantic rhythm pulsing at the base of her throat. His gaze, dark and unwavering, promised a reclamation, a mastery that made her knees weaken with a delicious, familiar dread. A single, calloused thumb traced the line of her jaw, a gesture of ownership that sent shivers cascading down her spine. The world outside the window blurred into ignificance, leaving only the electric space where their bodies almost touched. A low murmur escaped his lips, not words but a vibration that resonated deep within her bones, awakening a long-dormant hunger. And in that suspended moment, before the first real touch, the only game that mattered was the one about to begin anew.
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