Wicked
April Olsen, Seth Gamble Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken with a conspiratorial warmth, each breath a shared secret between them in the dim, quiet space. His fingers, tracing a path up the ide of her thigh, were not an invasion but a question whispered agat the fabric of her dress, a silent language only their bodies understood. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips as she arched her back, pressing herself more firmly into his palm, the heat of him a brand through the thin material. The world beyond their hidden nook dissolved into a distant hum, irrelevant agat the roaring pulse she felt in her own ears and the answering beat under her skin where he touched. He lowered his mouth to the sensitive curve of her neck, his lips not kissing but learning the frantic rhythm of her blood, a slow, deliberate exploration that made her fingers clutch at his shoulders. Every shift of his body agat hers was a deliberate, languid friction, a promise of what was to come, building a slow, coiling tension deep within her core. The scent of his skin, clean and musky, mixed with her own rising perfume, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that was theirs alone. She could feel the hard ridge of his desire pressing agat her hip, a potent, unspoken demand that sent a fresh wave of liquid heat pooling low in her belly. In that suspended moment, every stolen glance and hushed promise culminated in this exquisite, breathless anticipation, a delicious torment that was both an end and a beginning.
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