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Kyler Quinn, Troy Francisco Pic(s)
The world outside the rain-streaked window dissolved into a meaningless blur as his fingers finally, deliberately, traced the sensitive curve of her hip. A shiver, entirely separate from the evening’s chill, cascaded down her spine, and she let her head fall back with a soft, surrendering sigh. The weight of his palm was a brand of heat through the thin silk of her slip, a deliberate pressure that stilled the frantic whirl of her thoughts. He leaned in, his breath a warm caress agat the shell of her ear, and in that suspended moment, the only logic was the language of skin. Her own hands came up to map the solid plane of his chest, feeling the fierce, steady drumbeat beneath her fingertips, a rhythm her own heart began to mimic. The air grew thick with the scent of him, of clean sweat and night air, an intoxicating perfume that demanded complete immersion. There were no more questions, no past or future, only the exquisite present of his mouth finding the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. Every nerve ending awoke, singing a single, coherent note of pure sensation that drowned out the whisper of doubt. This was not a thing to be analyzed, but to be felt, a wave of feeling pulling her under into a deep, warm, and welcoming darkness.
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