Zerotolerancefilms
Elizabeth Del Mar, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The room held its breath as his shadow fell across her form, a long, possessive silhouette that drank the lamplight and deepened the shadows in the corners. Her skin, already warmed by the evening’s wine, prickled with a fresh awareness, each tiny hair standing at attention as his gaze traveled the length of her spine. He didn’t speak, but the air thickened between them, carrying the faint, musky scent of his cologne mixed with the clean smell of starched cotton. His hand, when it finally descended, was not a shock but an inevitability, a large, warm weight settling possessively on the curve of her hip. A slow, deliberate thumb began to trace circles on the sensitive skin just above the waistband of her silk shorts, each rotation sending a quiet tremor through her core. She arched into the touch, a silent plea for more, her head tilting back to expose the vulnerable column of her throat. His breath ghosted over her neck, a hot, damp promise that made her shiver before his lips finally made contact, not with a kiss, but with the softest graze of teeth. A low sound escaped her, part gasp and part surrender, as his other hand tangled in her hair, gently pulling her head back to a more acute angle. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the points of contact: the heat of his palm, the pressure of his fingers, the intoxicating claim of his mouth branding her as his.
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