Evilangel
Violet Starr, Jane Wilde Pic(s)
The final bell had long since faded into a hushed silence, leaving the two of them alone in the dusty, sun-warmed classroom. He moved behind her, his breath a warm caress agat the sensitive shell of her ear as his hands settled on her waist, his thumbs pressing slow, deliberate circles into the fabric of her uniform. A soft sigh escaped her lips, her head tilting back to rest agat his shoulder as his fingers began to trace the line of her spine through the thin cotton. The scent of chalk dust and old paper was suddenly overpowered by the clean, masculine smell of his skin, a fragrance that made her pulse quicken. His palm slid around to her stomach, pulling her flush agat the hard line of his body, and she could feel the steady, promising rhythm of his heart agat her back. One hand ventured upward, cupping the gentle weight of her breast, his thumb brushing over a nipple that hardened tantly into a pebble of aching need. A low murmur rumbled in his chest, words lost to sensation as his other hand slipped beneath the hem of her pleated skirt, his fingertips discovering the damp heat waiting for him. Every nerve ending sang with a delicious tension, the world narrowing to the feel of his touch and the shared, forbidden thrill of their clandestine meeting. In that suspended moment, detention became not a punishment, but a secret paradise of whispered promises and trembling exploration.
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