Wicked
Jenna Jameson, Mickey G. Pic(s)
The air crackled with the heat of their bodies, a palpable energy that hummed between them like a live wire. His knuckles, grazing the delicate curve of her hip, sent a shiver through her that was anything but cold, a tremor of pure anticipation. The scent of him, clean sweat and dark spice, filled her lungs, a heady perfume that made her head spin. Her own breath hitched as his palm flattened agat the small of her back, pressing her closer until not a sliver of space remained. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal agat her thigh, a silent, demanding promise that made her muscles clench with need. His lips found the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, and the wet, hot stroke of his tongue was a brand, a claiming that seared straight to her core. A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her own, a sound of raw, unchecked hunger. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her own whimper lost agat the skin of his shoulder. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to this single, incandescent point of contact, a perfect, burning fusion of skin and breath and desperate want.
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