Wicked
April Olsen, Lucas Frost Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to hum with a newfound charge, thick with the scent of warm skin and a shared, unspoken intent. His gaze was a physical touch, a slow, deliberate caress that traveled from the curve of her shoulder down the delicate line of her spine, leaving a trail of invisible heat in its wake. A single finger traced the path his eyes had blazed, a whisper-light contact that made her breath catch and hold in her throat. She arched into the touch, a silent plea for more, her own hands finding the solid plane of his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath her palm. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, the rustle of fabric as it slipped away a distant, irrelevant sound. His lips found the sensitive hollow where her neck met her collarbone, not a kiss but a slow, open-mouthed press that sent a jolt straight to her core. Every nerve ending awoke, singing a chorus of pure sensation as his hands explored the landscape of her body with possessive certainty. A low murmur escaped him, a vibration agat her skin that was more meaningful than any word, speaking of hunger and a deep, patient reverence. This was a dance of escalating tension, a beautiful, breathless climb where every touch was a promise and every sigh a testament to the fire they were building together.
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