Wicked
Demia, Douglas Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to hum with a low, electric current, thick with the mingled scents of expensive perfume and warm, eager skin. Her fingers, tipped with crimson, traced a slow, deliberate path down the curve of a spine, each vertebra a smooth, warm pearl beneath her touch. A soft, throaty murmur escaped her lips, a sound that was both invitation and command, lost in the dim, golden light of the room. The silk of her chemise whispered agat his thigh as she shifted, the fabric sliding to reveal the pale, perfect arc of her shoulder. He answered with a kiss placed there, a slow burn of contact that made her arch subtly, pressing herself into the solid warmth of his body. The world outside, with its ancient stones and distant murmurs, faded into an indistinct blur, irrelevant agat the intimate geography they were charting. Every glance was a promise, every shared breath a step deeper into a private universe of sensation. The taste of salt on his skin was a language she understood perfectly, speaking of desire that was both urgent and infinitely patient. In that suspended moment, nothing existed but the symphony of touch, the building rhythm of two bodies moving as one towards a shared, shimmering precipice.
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