Wicked
Bella Rolland, Lucas Frost Pic(s)
The familiar weight of his palm settled agat the small of her back, a proprietary heat that seeped through the thin silk of her dress, signaling the commencement of a dance they both knew by heart. Her breath hitched as his fingers traced a deliberate path upward, each vertebra a silent chord struck beneath his touch, awakening a low thrum deep within her core. He turned her slowly, the dim light catching the dark intensity in his eyes, a look that promised both conquest and surrender. The scent of his skin, a mix of clean sweat and expensive cologne, filled her senses as he leaned in, his lips brushing the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. A soft moan escaped her as his mouth found hers, not with gentle inquiry but with the confident possession of one reclaiming lost territory. His tongue explored with a languid, knowing pressure that made her knees weaken, her own hands sliding up to tangle in the thick hair at his nape. She could feel the hard ridge of his desire pressed agat her stomach, a potent reminder of the prize at the end of this delicious, agonizing tension. The world narrowed to the slide of fabric, the exchange of breath, the electric map his hands were charting across her yielding body. This was the unspoken language they had perfected, a symphony of whispered promises and aching need building towards its inevitable, shattering crescendo.
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