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Her skin held the faint, sun-warmed scent of salt and honey, a promise of summer that made my breath catch in my throat. I watched the way her dark, unkempt hair fell across her shoulders, each strand a brushstroke of wildness against the soft curve of her neck. A slow, deliberate smile played on her lips as she met my gaze, and I felt the heat of her attention settle low in my belly like a coal. The generous swell of her hips and the gentle weight of her thighs spoke of a woman unapologetically at home in her own body, and my longing sharpened to a fine, aching point. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, a lazy, circular motion that mirrored the rhythm I imagined against her skin, and the air between us grew thick with unspoken invitation. When she leaned forward, the soft fabric of her shirt whispered against the proud, full curve of her chest, and I was drowning in the simple, devastating elegance of her presence. The first touch of her hand on my knee was a shock of electricity, a current that ran straight to the core of my desire and set every nerve alight. I could feel the answering pulse of her body as she drew me closer, her breath a warm, fragrant breeze against my cheek, and the world narrowed to the space where our longing collided. The taste of her—a heady blend of earth and musk and a sweetness I couldn’t name—was a revelation, and my passion roared to life in a single, consuming wave. In that sacred, tangled moment, her fingers in my hair and her heat against my mouth, I knew that this hunger was not a hunger to be satisfied, but a connection to be worshipped.
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