Team Skeet
Little Chloe, Mike Zander Pic(s)
Her skin was the color of pale honey in the lamplight, and the shadow between her small breasts deepened with every breath, a secret valley he ached to explore. He traced the curve of her collarbone with a feather-light touch, and her longing shimmered in the air between them like heat rising off summer pavement. The soft tangle of her blonde hair spilled across the pillow, a golden river that invited his fingers to drift and lose themselves. When she whispered his name, it was a promise wrapped in velvet, and the heat of her whisper traveled down his spine like a slow, deliberate flame. Her lips parted, not for words, but for the unspoken invitation that made his own mouth go dry with raw, aching desire. He lowered his head, and the first brush of her tongue against his skin was a shock of pleasure, a lightning strike that turned the room into a field of static and need. She moved with a dancer’s grace, her body a question he answered with trembling hands, each caress a stanza in their private, silent poetry. The scent of her, clean and faintly sweet, mingled with the musk of their shared anticipation, and passion coiled in his belly like a living, breathing thing. Her fingers found the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, and the connection between them tightened into a taut, humming wire of pure, electric pleasure. In that suspended moment, the world outside dissolved, and all that remained was the rhythm of their breathing and the exquisite, unbearable heat of wanting her completely.
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