Whiteghetto
Lilly Kingston, Peter Delmar Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick with the scent of her perfume and their shared heat, a palpable tension that clung to the skin. His gaze, dark and intent, traced the delicate curve of her spine as she moved with a languid grace agat the rumpled sheets. A low murmur escaped his lips, a vibration she felt rather than heard, as his hands settled on the gentle swell of her hips. Her head fell back, a cascade of golden hair spilling over his arm, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat to his seeking mouth. Every touch was a slow, deliberate exploration, a map of known territories being rediscovered with fresh wonder. The slide of skin agat skin was a whisper of silk, a friction that built a delicious, aching warmth deep within her core. He filled her senses completely, the solid strength of his body a shelter and a demand, moving with a rhythm that was both primal and exquisitely controlled. A soft, broken sigh was her only answer, a surrender to the overwhelming tide of sensation that threatened to pull her under. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the space between their bodies, a universe of feeling contained within the four walls of the dimly lit room.
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