21Sextreme
Zazie Skymm, Di Devi Pic(s)
The heavy velvet drapes were drawn agat the encroaching night, but the fire in the hearth painted the library in a lexicon of warm, shifting gold. He watched her from the high-backed leather chair, his gaze a tangible pressure that started at the nape of her neck and traveled, with deliberate slowness, down the elegant curve of her spine. The only sound was the soft hiss of the logs and the whisper of silk as she turned, the fabric clinging to her hips with a lover’s intimacy. A single strap slipped from her shoulder, baring skin that glowed like polished marble in the firelight, and he felt a corresponding heat bloom deep within his chest. Her lips, stained the color of a fine, aged wine, parted not in speech but in a silent, inviting sigh that seemed to suck all the air from the room. The scent of her perfume, jasmine and something darker, more primal, wove through the aroma of old books and beeswax, an intoxicating thread pulling him closer. His fingers, long and aristocratic, twitched with the memory of the weight of her breast, the quickening pulse at her throat. She took a step forward, the hem of her gown brushing agat the Persian rug, each movement a study in controlled, languid grace. This was a game they had played for years, a slow, meticulous unraveling of propriety until only raw, aching need remained.
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