Sis Loves Me
Fiona Frost, Parker Ambrose Pic(s)
Her skin, dewy from the practice’s lingering heat, held the scent of sun-warmed citrus and clean exertion as she stretched into a deep lunge before him. The curve of her hip, caught in the low light, promised a rhythm that had nothing to do with her yoga mat, and his gaze traced that line with a reverence that bordered on hunger. A shared breath, drawn between them, hung in the air like a held note, anticipation coiling in the space where their bodies had not yet touched. He knelt, the whisper of his knees against the floor a quiet plea, while her fingers, light as feathers, brushed the taut fabric at his waist, seeking the heat beneath. The slow, deliberate slide of her palm was a question answered by the sharp intake of his breath, a language of longing spoken without words. Her touch, at once tentative and assured, mapped the geography of his desire, each stroke a verse in an unspoken poem of connection. He watched the fall of her hair, a curtain of gold, as she lowered herself, her intention written in the tilt of her chin and the soft focus of her eyes. The world narrowed to the wet, warm promise of her mouth, a velvet pressure that drew a groan from his chest, raw and unbidden. A tremor ran through her, a mirror of his own shaking control, as pleasure, sharp and exquisite, arced between them like a live current. Then, a final, consuming wave crested, leaving them both breathless in its wake, a shared secret sealed in the language of skin and heat.
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