Wicked
Kenzie Taylor, Ryan Mclane Pic(s)
The world narrowed to the single point where his thumb traced the delicate line of her collarbone, a slow, deliberate arc that sent a cascade of heat flooding through her ve. Her breath hitched, a soft, surrendering sound lost in the quiet space between them as his palm flattened agat her sternum, feeling the frantic, answering rhythm beneath her skin. He leaned in, his lips not yet touching hers, but his warm exhalation ghosting over her mouth, a promise of what was to come. The scent of him—clean soap and something uniquely, deeply masculine—filled her senses, an intoxicating perfume that made her head swim. Her own hands rose, fingers trembling slightly as they slid up the solid plane of his chest, mapping the contours of muscle and bone through the thin fabric of his shirt. When his mouth finally descended, it was not a collision but a merging, a soft, searching pressure that tasted of shared secrets and unspoken longing. A low groan rumbled in his chest, a vibration she felt deep within herself as his fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss. Every nerve ending awoke, singing with an electric current that connected the place where their mouths met to the sudden, heavy ache building low in her belly. In that suspended moment, there was only the languid slide of skin agat skin, the hushed symphony of their breathing, and the profound, unfolding truth of their connection.
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