Wicked
Kenna James, Jane Wilde Pic(s)
His fingers traced the delicate curve of my jaw, tilting my face upward as the space between us dissolved into a charged silence. The warmth of his breath ghosted across my lips, a tantalizing promise that sent a shiver cascading down my spine. My eyes fluttered closed, surrendering to the magnetic pull drawing us together, my senses narrowing to the intoxicating scent of his skin. When our mouths finally met, it was not a collision but a slow, deliberate fusion, a soft pressure that bloomed into liquid heat. His tongue ventured forth, a gentle exploration that tasted of midnight secrets and unspoken yearning, coaxing a soft, involuntary sound from my throat. Every nerve ending awoke, singing with the raw, intimate connection as his hands slid into my hair, anchoring me in the moment. The world outside ceased to exist, replaced by the shared rhythm of our breathing and the slick, warm slide of this deep, consuming embrace. I melted agat him, my own hands finding purchase on the solid plane of his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift and tighten with each subtle movement. It was a silent conversation of desire, a profound joining that left me breathless and aching for the unending continuation of this singular, perfect point in time.
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