Wicked
Charlotte Stokely, Kristen Scott Pic(s)
The world dissolved into the space between our lips, a universe contained within the shared warmth of our breath. His hand, a slow and deliberate heat, traced the delicate curve of my spine, sending shivers that rippled through my entire being like a stone cast into still water. I could taste the faint, sweet memory of wine on his tongue as it met mine in a dance both tender and demanding. Every nerve ending awoke, singing a chorus of pure sensation that drowned out the distant hum of the city beyond our sanctuary. The scent of his skin, a intoxicating blend of sandalwood and the night air, filled my lungs with every ragged inhale. My fingers tangled in the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until not a sliver of light could pass between our bodies. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest, a vibration I felt deep within my own, speaking a language far older than words. The gentle pressure of his mouth shifted, becoming more istent, a silent question that my own lips answered with a desperate, yielding hunger. In that suspended moment, there was only the electric current of touch and the profound, aching need to become utterly lost in him.
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