Wicked
Emma Starletto, Ryan Mclane Pic(s)
The decision had been made, a silent pact sealed with the meeting of their eyes, and now the only truth was the weight of his hand on the small of her back, guiding her gently into the dim sanctuary of the room. Moonlight, pale and liquid, spilled through the window, catching the dust motes dancing in the charged air between them, illuminating the slow, deliberate path his fingers took as they traced the line of her collarbone. A shiver, not of cold but of pure anticipation, raced down her spine as he leaned in, his breath a warm caress agat the shell of her ear, whispering promises that were felt more than heard. The scent of him, clean soap and something uniquely masculine, filled her senses, drowning out all reason, all doubt, leaving only the raw, throbbing need that had been building for what felt like an eternity. His lips finally found hers, not with demanding force, but with a profound tenderness that spoke of a long-awaited surrender, a soft, searching pressure that made her knees weaken. She felt the coarse texture of his wool sweater beneath her palms as she pulled him closer, the contrast of the rough fabric agat her own soft skin a delicious friction that heightened every other sensation. A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated want, and her mouth opened to him, allowing the kiss to deepen into something hungry and consuming. The world outside, with its complications and judgments, ceased to exist, replaced by the symphony of their shared breaths and the frantic beating of two hearts finally falling into the same rhythm. In that suspended moment, every touch, every sigh, every electric spark that passed between their bodies felt not like a transgression, but like the most natural, the most inevitable, and indeed, the only possible course of action.
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