Evilangel
Naomi Russell, Brian Surewood, Tony T Pic(s)
The world narrowed to the single point of his palm splayed possessively agat the small of my back, a brand of heat that promised both command and shelter. His other hand tangled in my hair, not with cruelty, but with an undeniable authority that tilted my head back, baring my throat in a silent, willing surrender. A low, approving rumble vibrated from his chest into mine as his lips found the frantic pulse at the base of my neck, his teeth scraping a path of delicious, shivering fire. Every nerve ending sang with the raw physicality of it, the sheer strength in his grasp as he maneuvered me effortlessly agat the solid wall. The scent of him—clean sweat and dark spice—filled my lungs, an intoxicating fog that blurred all thought. I felt the hard ridge of his thigh press firmly between my own, a deliberate pressure that drew a soft, involuntary gasp from my lips. His grip on my hip tightened, fingers digging in just enough to leave a memory in the morning, a testament to this moment of complete physical dominion. My own hands, which had fluttered in a moment of surprise, now clung to the powerful cords of his shoulders, anchoring myself in the storm of sensation he so masterfully conducted. In that suspended breath, there was no past or future, only the exquisite present of being utterly, thrillingly overpowered by a force I trusted completely.
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