Burningangel
Ivy Lebelle, Small Hands Pic(s)
The candlelight danced across her pale skin like liquid gold, tracing the delicate curve of her spine as she arched agat the velvet chaise. Shadows clung to the hollow of her throat where a single pearl of sweat glistened, catching the flickering flame as it traced a slow path downward. Her breath hitched when cool air met the exposed swell of her breast, the dark lace of her corset straining with each deliberate inhalation. Fingers tipped in crimson brushed agat a silver chain around her waist, the metal cool agat feverish skin as it dipped below silk and shadow. The scent of night-blooming jasmine and aged parchment clung to the room, wrapping around her like a second skin as she turned her head slowly. Dark tresses cascaded over slender shoulders, each strand whispering secrets agat bare flesh as they fell like a curtain of midnight. A low murmur escaped her lips, a sound that was neither plea nor command but something ancient and knowing that stirred the silence. The fabric of her skirt pooled around her like spilled wine, revealing the elegant line of a thigh where moonlight and shadow warred for dominion. Every movement was a carefully orchestrated symphony of temptation, each glance from beneath lowered lashes a promise of forbidden knowledge waiting to be unraveled.
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