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Violet Myers, Van Wylde Pic(s)
The air, thick with the scent of rain on hot pavement and the lingering sweetness of her perfume, seemed to crackle with a new, dangerous energy. His gaze, usually so familiar and safe, now felt like a physical touch, tracing the line of my jaw down to the frantic pulse at the base of my throat. A low, guttural sound escaped him, a vibration I felt deep in my bones as his fingers, calloused and sure, finally tangled in my hair, pulling my head back just enough to expose the column of my neck. The first brush of his lips there was not a question but a claiming, a hot, wet brand that sent a shiver cascading down my spine, pooling as a molten heat low in my belly. My own hands, acting on an tinct long suppressed, slid beneath his shirt, palms flattening agat the hard planes of his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift and contract with each ragged breath. The world outside the window, the city lights and distant traffic, blurred into an ignificant haze, the only reality the rough texture of his jeans agat my thigh and the intoxicating friction of our bodies moving in a desperate, silent rhythm. A soft, involuntary moan escaped my lips, swallowed immediately by his mouth as it found mine in a kiss that was less about tenderness and more about a hunger finally unleashed. Every boundary we had so carefully constructed over years of friendship shattered in that single, breathless moment, leaving only the raw, aching truth of skin agat skin. The sharp, sudden creak of the floorboard in the hallway froze us both, a jarring interruption that made my heart hammer agat my ribs not with passion, but with the cold, sharp sting of impending discovery.
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