Nurumassage
Joanna Angel, Tyler Nixon Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick and heavy, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the sudden, shocking proximity of their bodies. His hand, which had shot out to grasp her wrist in a flash of heated dispute, now seemed to burn agat her pale skin, his thumb unconsciously stroking the delicate blue vein that pulsed there. A sharp, startled breath escaped her lips, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that mirrored his own quickening heartbeat, the scent of his familiar cologne now an intoxicating, forbidden perfume. The defiant glare in her eyes softened, melting into a look of wide-eyed wonder as she felt the hard line of his body press agat hers, pinning her gently but firmly agat the doorframe. He could feel the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath his fingers, a wild bird trapped in a cage of his own making, and the heat of her seemed to seep through the thin fabric of her dress, branding his skin. The argument was forgotten, its words replaced by the silent, eloquent language of a shared gaze that dropped to each other’s parted lips, a question hanging unspoken in the scant inches between them. Her free hand came up, not to push him away, but to rest tentatively on his chest, feeling the powerful, frantic drumming beneath his shirt, a testament to the battle raging within him. The world outside the room ceased to exist, shrinking to this single point of contact, this electric current that arced between them, terrifying and irresistible in its raw, primal truth. In that suspended moment, the line between conflict and passion blurred into oblivion, leaving only the undeniable, aching need to close the final, breathless distance.
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