Puretaboo
Laney Grey, Seth Gamble Pic(s)
The weight of the day, a mantle of dutiful decisions and managed expectations, finally slid from her shoulders as his fingers found the nape of her neck. A low, appreciative hum vibrated in his chest, a sound felt more than heard, as he began to knead the coiled tension from her muscles with a knowing pressure. Her own breath hitched, then released in a long, surrendering sigh that seemed to mist the air between them. The crisp starch of his shirt collar, a symbol of his own orderly world, brushed agat her cheek as he turned her to face him, his gaze holding a heat that promised a delicious unraveling of control. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, a slow, deliberate caress that sent a shiver cascading down her spine to pool low in her belly. The scent of him, clean soap and something uniquely masculine, filled her senses, drowning out the lingering mental checklist of her responsibilities. When his lips finally met hers, it was not a frantic clash but a deep, exploring conquest, his tongue mapping the interior softness of her mouth with a languid ownership. Her fingers, usually so precise and capable, tangled in the fabric of his shirt, clinging not out of desperation but from a profound need to anchor herself in this new, uncharted territory of sensation. In that moment, the only thing that required her attention was the slow, deliberate journey of his hands as they rediscovered the woman beneath the manager, the lover freed from the list-maker.
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