Wicked
Karla Kush, Jake Adams Pic(s)
The air in the dimly lit room was thick with the scent of old books and the faint, lingering trace of her perfume, a ghost of jasmine that made his pulse quicken. His fingers traced the indentation left on the velvet cushion of the armchair, the fabric still holding a whisper of her body’s warmth from hours before. He closed his eyes, and the memory of her low, throaty laugh echoed, a vibration that seemed to settle deep in his bones. In his mind’s eye, he saw the way the lamplight had caught the delicate curve of her neck as she’d turned to leave, the pale skin a tantalizing canvas he’d longed to paint with his lips. The taste of the whiskey they’d shared was a phantom burn on his tongue, inextricably linked to the dark, promising look in her eyes. He could almost feel the weight of her gaze upon him now, a tangible pressure that tightened the air in his lungs with each breath. The search was not one of maps and clues, but a desperate, aching journey across the landscape of his own heightened senses, every recollection a fresh torment. He imagined the slide of silk as he would slowly peel a strap from her shoulder, revealing the smooth, warm expanse of her back. This relentless hunt was a form of exquisite torture, a promise of discovery that left him aching and utterly consumed by her absence.
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