Teddy Tarantino
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Her gaze traced the line of his jaw, a slow, deliberate study that made the air between them feel thick with unspoken longing. The way his fingers curled around the nape of her neck was less a command than a question, one her body answered with a soft, yielding arch. She felt the heat of him against her cheek, a furnace of want that turned her thoughts to liquid and pooled low in her belly. Every slide of her palm along his thigh was a whispered promise, a rhythm that built like a tide against the shore of her own desire. The weight of his hand on her hip anchored her, even as her knees pressed into the plush carpet, a posture of offering that felt like the purest form of connection. She drew him deeper into the warm, velvet dark of her mouth, savoring the tremor that ran through his frame like a struck chord. His breath hitched, a ragged note of surrender, and she felt the power of her own passion ripple through the silence, heady and intoxicating. The taste of him was salt and skin and the faint, musky perfume of intimacy, a flavor that made her ache with a pleasure that was almost unbearable. When his hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, she knew the rhythm of their bodies had become a single, desperate heartbeat. She lifted her eyes to meet his, and in that shared gaze, the heat between them flared into a blinding, perfect flame—a hunger that promised to consume them both.
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