Andrew Oster
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Her skin was warm velvet under his palms, and the low, animal hum of her desire vibrated through his fingertips. He traced the curve of her spine with a reverence that felt like prayer, each touch a promise of the heat pooling between them. The scent of her—clean sweat and wildflower—filled his senses, a heady perfume that made his own longing sharpen to a fine, unbearable point. She turned to him, her gaze a dark, liquid invitation that spoke of a hunger matched only by his own. His breath caught as she knelt, the graceful dip of her shoulders a prelude to a devotion he could scarcely comprehend. The first whisper of her lips against him was a shock of pleasure, a silent language of trust and surrender that bound them tighter than any word. Her rhythm was a slow, deliberate tide, pulling him under into a current of pure, consuming passion. He fisted his hands in her hair, not to guide, but to anchor himself against the sweet, dizzying storm she unleashed. The sight of her—a portrait of focus and giving—ignited a possessive heat that raced along his nerves like wildfire. In this shared breath, this fragile, electric moment, their connection blazed with an intimacy that promised a pleasure neither would soon forget.
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