Wicked
Sailor Luna, Logan Pierce Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to shimmer with a palpable heat, thick with the scent of exertion and desire. His gaze, dark and intent, traveled the length of her form, mapping the delicate sheen of perspiration that adorned her skin like morning dew. A low groan rumbled from his chest as his calloused palms found the curve of her waist, the touch both possessive and reverent. She arched into him, a silent plea answered by the slow, deliberate press of his hips agat hers, a promise of the rhythm to come. Her fingers tangled in the damp hair at his nape, pulling him closer until their breaths mingled, hot and urgent. Every nerve ending felt alive, singing with the electric current that passed between their connected bodies. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the slick friction of skin on skin and the escalating tempo of their shared heartbeat. Whispers, raw and fragmented, were lost agat feverish flesh, words unnecessary when every movement spoke volumes. It was a dance of pure, unadulterated need, a crescendo building towards an inevitable, shattering release.
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