Wicked
Kristen Scott, Serene Siren Pic(s)
The world dissolved into the warm pressure of his mouth moving agat mine, a slow exploration that tasted of midnight and longing. His fingers traced the delicate line of my jaw, a featherlight touch that sent shivers cascading down my spine, pooling as a molten heat low in my belly. I could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart where my palm rested agat his chest, a primal rhythm answering the frantic flutter of my own. The scent of his skin, clean and faintly musky, filled my senses, drowning out all other thoughts but the feel of him. A soft sigh escaped me, swallowed by the deepening kiss as his tongue gently sought entrance, a silken promise of further intimacy. Every nerve ending awoke, hyper-aware of the hard planes of his body aligning with my softer curves, separated only by the whisper-thin barrier of our clothing. The air grew thick, charged with a palpable energy that crackled between our connected lips, a silent language of desire and anticipation. My hands slid up to tangle in the dark silk of his hair, pulling him closer, needing to erase any last vestige of space between us. In that suspended moment, there was only this—the shared breath, the building tension, the exquisite ache of a hunger beginning to be sated.
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