Wicked
Kira Noir, Seth Gamble Pic(s)
The familiar scent of his cologne, a dark blend of sandalwood and spice, hit her first as he stepped closer, a phantom touch that made her skin prickle in anticipation. His knuckles, rough and warm, grazed the sensitive curve of her neck, a deliberate, slow caress that sent a shiver cascading down her spine. She could feel the latent strength in his hand as it settled at the small of her back, a possessive pressure that pulled her agat the solid wall of his chest. The low thrum of his heartbeat vibrated through her own, a primal rhythm that synced with the quickening pulse at her wrists. His breath, warm and tasting faintly of whiskey, ghosted across her lips before he finally closed the minuscule distance, his mouth claiming hers with a confident, searching hunger. Every nerve ending came alive, screaming with the sensation of his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, a silent request for entry she granted with a soft, yielding sigh. The world outside their embrace dissolved into a meaningless blur of light and sound, irrelevant agat the sharp focus of his touch, the heat of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of her dress. It was a reawakening, a rediscovery of a language written not in words but in the slide of skin on skin and the shared, ragged breaths between kisses. This was no mere rehearsal; it was the main event, and she was finally, exquisitely, present for every breathtaking second.
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