Evilangel
Aria Lee, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The afternoon light, thick and golden as honey, spilled through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing around her still form. A soft sigh escaped her lips, a sound barely louder than the rustle of her plaid skirt as she shifted her weight agat the worn leather of the armchair. His shadow fell over her, not as a threat, but as a welcome eclipse, blocking the sun and narrowing her world to the scent of old books and his clean, sharp cologne. His fingers, surprisingly cool, traced a path from the delicate hinge of her jaw down the column of her throat, pausing to feel the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath the skin. The starched white cotton of her blouse felt suddenly restrictive, each breath causing the fabric to strain agat buttons that seemed too small, too fragile. A single, knowing touch at the top fastener sent a shiver through her, a current of anticipation that pooled low in her belly. When the first button gave way, it was with a whisper of release, exposing the pale, vulnerable curve of her collarbone to the warm, still air. He bent his head, and his breath was a ghost of heat agat that newly bared skin, a promise of a lesson far more intimate than any found in the textbooks scattered around them. In that suspended moment, every sensation was amplified, from the rough texture of the leather beneath her thighs to the profound, aching wait for his mouth to finally meet her flesh.
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