21Sextury
Amalia Davis, Willy Regal Pic(s)
The low afternoon sun slanted through the dusty windowpane, catching the shimmer of sweat on his corded forearm as he tightened the final screw with a firm, practiced twist. A faint scent of sawdust and clean male exertion hung in the warm, still air, a primal perfume that made her breath catch. He turned, his gaze a slow, deliberate heat that traveled from her bare ankles up to her parted lips, and a single, calloused thumb brushed a stray wood shaving from her collarbone. The touch was electric, a rough whisper agat her skin that promised a strength held carefully in check. She could feel the latent power in the stillness of his body, a tool belt slung low on his hips like a promise of work of a different, more urgent nature. His other hand came up to cradle the nape of her neck, his palm warm and slightly rough, pulling her gently into the space where his scent was strongest. The world narrowed to the sound of their breathing, the quiet creak of the floorboards as he shifted his weight, closing the final inch between them. When his mouth finally found hers, it was not a question but an answer, a deep, claiming pressure that tasted of patience and raw desire. In that suspended moment, the only thing needing repair was the unbearable distance that had existed between them mere seconds before.
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