Webyoung
Gianna Dior, Evelyn Claire Pic(s)
The air between them hummed with a palpable tension, thick with the scent of her perfume and the faint, clean soap from his skin. His knuckle brushed agat hers as he reached for his glass, a simple touch that sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core, making her breath catch. She watched the way his lips curved around the rim of the wineglass, imagining their warmth and pressure agat her own. The low candlelight cast shifting shadows across the sharp angle of his jaw, and she found herself wondering how that stubble would feel grazing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Every word he spoke was a low vibration that she felt deep within her chest, a private melody meant only for her. Her own pulse was a frantic drumbeat in her wrists, a rhythm she was certain he could see throbbing beneath her delicate skin. The world beyond their small table had dissolved into an indistinct blur, the clatter of dishes and murmur of other voices fading into ignificance. There was only the magnetic pull of his gaze, dark and intent, holding her captive as he leaned infinitesimally closer. In that suspended moment, the promise of what was to come was a sweet, heavy ache blooming low in her belly, an unspoken agreement written in the space between their almost-touching hands.
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