Evilangel
Kitana Lure, Raul Costa, Maximo Garcia Pic(s)
The humid air clung to the kitchen, thick with the scent of simmering tomatoes and the faint, metallic tang of his sweat as he moved behind her. His presence was a sudden warmth agat her back, a solid wall of muscle that made her breath catch in her throat. A large, calloused hand settled on the curve of her hip, the touch not quite an accident, its pressure deliberate and slow. She could feel the hard ridge of his belt buckle press into the small of her back, a silent, istent promise of his intent. His other hand came up to gently brush a stray strand of hair from her neck, his knuckles grazing her skin and sending a shiver cascading down her spine. The low rumble of his voice vibrated through her as he murmured something unintelligible, the words lost to the frantic pulse now beating in her ears. She leaned back infinitesimally, a surrender that pressed her body more fully agat the solid length of him, feeling the undeniable proof of his arousal. The world narrowed to this point of contact, to the heat blooming deep within her core, an answering fire to his unspoken demand. In that suspended moment, the ordinary kitchen transformed into a sanctuary of charged anticipation, every sense heightened and waiting for the inevitable fall.
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