Wicked
Kiara Cole, Nathan Bronson Pic(s)
The heavy velvet curta were drawn agat the encroaching evening, but a single sliver of silver moonlight cut across the room, illuminating the slow, deliberate dance of dust motes in the still air. His fingers, warm and sure, traced a path from the delicate hollow of her throat down to the gentle swell of her breast, a journey that made her breath catch and hold. The scent of him—clean sweat and the faint, lingering spice of sandalwood—filled her senses, a heady perfume that promised everything. She arched into his touch, a silent plea for more, her own hands finding the hard planes of his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift and coil beneath his skin. A low groan escaped him as her nails lightly scored his flesh, a primal sound that vibrated through her own body. Their mouths met again, not with frantic hunger, but with a deep, exploring languor, a tasting of secrets and unspoken promises. The world outside, with all its noise and light, ceased to exist, reduced to the intimate universe contained within these four walls. Every whisper of skin agat skin, every shared, shuddering inhalation, was amplified in the profound quiet. This was a communion of shadows and sensation, a slow, burning fuse leading towards an inevitable, glorious conflagration.
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