Teddy Tarantino
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Her skin was warm silk stretched taut over the restless curve of her hips, and the air between them thickened with a longing that had no name. His gaze traced the golden spill of her hair, each strand a filament of fire catching the dim light, while her own eyes held a hunger that mirrored his. She moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a dancer, the soft sway of her body a silent invitation that made his pulse drum low and deep. When her fingers brushed the nape of his neck, the contact was a spark that ignited a slow, smoldering heat along his spine. He breathed in the scent of her—sweet, wild, and impossibly intimate—and felt his restraint dissolve like sugar in warm rain. The weight of her against him was a promise, her softness yielding to the firmness of his chest, and he ached with the pleasure of simply holding her. Her lips parted, not for words, but for the shared air between them, and the anticipation coiled in his belly like a secret only they could keep. She lowered herself with a fluid grace, her gaze never leaving his, and the world narrowed to the rhythm of her breath against his skin. Every shift of her body was a stroke of pure connection, a silent conversation of heat and desire that made his hands tremble with reverence. In that suspended moment, passion was not a destination but a living, breathing thing, and he surrendered to its gentle, consuming pull.
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