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Richelle Ryan, Jodie Johnson Pic(s)
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, sealing the world away as the rich scent of sandalwood and vanilla wrapped around his senses like a warm, invisible caress. A single trail of crimson rose petals led his gaze across the dimly lit room, each one a soft, velvety promise agat the dark, polished floorboards. His eyes followed the path to where she waited, draped in silk the color of a deep twilight sky, the fabric whispering secrets as it clung to the generous curve of her hip. The low light from the fireplace painted her skin in hues of gold and amber, catching the subtle, anticipatory tremor in the hand she extended towards him. He could hear the soft, rhythmic cadence of her breathing, a quiet drumbeat syncing with the frantic pulse now throbbing in his own ve. As he stepped forward, the air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the unspoken language of desire that hummed between them. The delicate strap of her chemise slipped from her shoulder, baring skin that he knew would taste of salt and honey. Her lips parted in a silent invitation, a glimpse of warmth and wetness that promised a sanctuary from the cold night. Every fiber of his being was drawn into her orbit, into the profound, aching need to close that final, electric distance and finally, completely, come home.
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