Evilangel
Jane Wilde, Brock Cooper Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the unspoken promise of what was to come as her fingers traced a slow, deliberate path down the pane of glass, leaving a faint, steamy trail in their wake. A shiver, entirely unrelated to the coolness of the window, coursed through her, a tremor of anticipation that began deep within her core and radiated outwards to the very tips of her fingers. She could feel the weight of his gaze upon her back, a tangible heat that seeped through the thin silk of her chemise, branding her skin with a delicious, possessive intent. Her breath hitched as his shadow fell over her, his presence an intoxicating blend of warmth and masculine scent that filled her lungs and clouded her thoughts. When his hands finally settled on her hips, the contact was electric, a jolt of pure sensation that made her knees weaken and her head fall back agat his shoulder. His lips found the sensitive curve of her neck, not with a kiss, but with the slow, wet drag of his tongue that tasted of salt and desire, a silent language that spoke volumes of his hunger. A low, guttural sound escaped her throat, a raw admission of a need so profound it felt like a second heartbeat, frantic and demanding beneath her ribs. He turned her then, his eyes dark pools of undisguised craving, and in their depths she saw the reflection of her own wild, untamed yearning, a shared understanding that needed no words. This was the hidden truth of her existence, the pulsating, secret rhythm to which her body moved, a surrender so complete it felt less like a choice and more like a homecoming.
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