Wicked
Emily Willis, Ramon Nomar Pic(s)
The room dissolved into a haze of shared breath and the low, thrumming pulse of a distant bassline, a world reduced to the slick heat of skin agat skin. His hands, rough with intention, mapped the delicate architecture of her spine, each vertebra a small, yielding landmark under his touch. A low groan escaped him as she arched into the pressure, her own fingers tangling in the damp hair at his nape, pulling him deeper into the scent of her. The thin barrier of her clothing became a frustrating, delicious delay, each button surrendered not with a pop but with a slow, deliberate slide of fabric agat hypersensitive skin. He lowered his mouth to the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, tasting salt and desire, a primal language that needed no translation. Her whispered plea was not for mercy but for more, a ragged command lost agat his shoulder as he finally, fully, closed the last inch between them. The air crackled with the raw energy of their joining, a friction that was both agony and ecstasy, a perfect, grinding rhythm that promised ruin. Every sense was overwhelmed, sight blurring into a mosaic of shadow and lamplight, sound reduced to the ragged symphony of their breathing. This was not a beginning or an end, but a pure, suspended moment of collision, a desperate, beautiful freefall into sensation.
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