Wicked
Bertha, Peter Pic(s)
The humid air clung to the room, thick with the scent of warm skin and expensive perfume. A low, throaty laugh escaped her lips as she arched her back, the curve of her spine a perfect bow agat the rumpled silk sheets. His calloused hands, surprisingly gentle, traced a slow, deliberate path from the delicate hollow of her throat down to the swell of her hip, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. The only light came from a single lamp, casting long, dancing shadows that caressed the contours of their entangled bodies. She could feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart agat her own, a primal drumbeat syncing with their shared breath. Her fingers tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer until their mouths met in a deep, searching kiss that tasted of salt and desire. Every nerve ending felt alive, electric, as his mouth found the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, a promise of what was to come. The world outside the window, the distant hum of the city, faded into an indistinct murmur, unimportant agat the symphony of soft sighs and rustling fabric. This was a universe contained within four walls, a private sanctuary where time itself seemed to slow and stretch, devoted entirely to the exploration of pleasure.
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