Wicked
Alexis Tae, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The room was bathed in the soft, golden glow of twilight, spilling through the half-drawn curta like liquid honey. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path along the curve of her spine, each touch a silent promise that made her skin hum with anticipation. She arched into his palm, a soft sigh escaping her lips as the warmth of his hand seeped deep into her muscles. He leaned in, his breath a hot whisper agat the shell of her ear, sending shivers cascading down her neck and shoulders. The scent of his skin, a mix of clean soap and something uniquely masculine, filled her senses, intoxicating and familiar. Their bodies moved in a seamless, unhurried rhythm, a dance of exploration where every shift and press spoke volumes. His mouth found the sensitive hollow of her throat, his lips soft yet istent, tasting the salt of her skin. A low moan rumbled in his chest, vibrating through her own frame as their legs tangled together, anchoring them in the moment. In that suspended space, time seemed to stretch and bend, every nerve ending alight with the raw, electric current of their connection.
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