Wicked
Scarlett Jones, Massimo Tomas Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of warm skin and fading perfume, a heady mixture that clung to the velvet drapes drawn agat the encroaching dusk. His fingers, calloused from the strings of a guitar, traced a slow, deliberate path down the slope of her spine, each vertebra a tiny summit under his exploring touch. She arched into him, a soft sigh escaping her lips as her own hands fisted in the soft cotton of his shirt, a silent, urgent counterpoint to his languid pace. This was a quiet battle of wills, a push and pull of desire where surrender was the only victory either sought. The only sounds were the ragged intake of their breath and the faint rustle of fabric yielding to impatient tugs. He lowered his mouth to the sensitive hollow of her throat, his tongue painting a wet, hot trail that made her gasp and tighten her grip. In response, she shifted her hips, pressing the full, aching length of her agat the hard line of his thigh, a bold move that drew a low groan from deep within his chest. The tension between them was a palpable force, a thrilling equilibrium of giving and taking that threatened to shatter at any moment. They were two opposing currents in a single, shadowy sea, each desperate pull met with an equally fervent push, lost in the exquisite friction of their shared need.
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