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Her skin held the memory of summer, a warmth that drew my hands like a compass finds true north. I traced the curve of her spine, a slow pilgrimage down a landscape of yielding muscle and secret shadow. The air thickened with the scent of her, a heady perfume of salt and sweet that made my pulse a drumbeat in the dark. She turned, and the weight of her gaze was a velvet pressure, a silent invitation that pooled heat low in my belly. My fingers found the hollow of her hip, then wandered lower, charting the generous swell that promised a soft, engulfing haven. A tremor ran through her at my touch, a silent language of longing that spoke louder than any word. I knelt before her, a supplicant at the altar of her desire, and my mouth found the very source of her heat. The taste of her was a revelation, a complex vintage of honey and rain, and I drank until her breath became a ragged prayer. She arched into me, a bow drawn taut with pleasure, and the world narrowed to the rhythm of her surrender. When she finally broke, a shuddering wave of release, I gathered her close, her pulse against my lips a final, perfect confession.
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