Wicked
Joanna Angel, Small Hands Pic(s)
The air between them thickened with the scent of warm skin and anticipation, a silent language they had perfected over years of stolen glances. His knuckles, grazing the delicate curve of her waist, sent a tremor through her that was more profound than any casual touch could ever be. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat as her fingers tangled in his hair, not with gentle inquiry but with a claiming pressure that spoke of long-denied hunger. The careful architecture of their friendship crumbled with the first taste of her mouth, a flavor both startlingly new and deeply familiar, like a forgotten memory rediscovered on the tongue. Every point of contact became a small conflagration, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric covering her thigh, branding her with his intent. She arched into him, a wordless surrender that was also a demand, her body molding agat the hard planes of his as if finding its missing counterpart. The world outside the room dissolved into an indistinct hum, irrelevant agat the roaring pulse beating in their ears, a frantic rhythm they now shared. There was no hesitation in the way his lips traced a path down her neck, each kiss a deliberate, slow-burning promise of the abandon to come. This was not a beginning born of awkward discovery, but an inevitable collision of two souls finally succumbing to the raw, undeniable truth simmering beneath a decade of shared laughter and quiet support.
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