Wicked
Charlotte Stokely, Jane Wilde Pic(s)
His body moved agat hers, a deliberate and powerful pressure that molded her softness to his hard lines, pinning her gently yet inescapably to the wall. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, a vibration she felt deep within her own chest as his hands slid from her face, down the trembling curve of her spine, to settle firmly on the swell of her hips. Her fingers tangled desperately in his hair, pulling him closer still, as if she could dissolve the final, infinitesimal space between them. The world outside this frantic connection ceased to exist, reduced to the scent of his skin, the heat of his breath on her neck, and the thunderous rhythm of two hearts hammering in a single, frantic syncopation. Every nerve ending sang with a raw, electric awareness, each point of contact a small, brilliant star igniting under the friction of their clothes. She arched into him, a silent plea for more, her mouth finding his again with a hunger that was both yielding and demanding. He answered with a deepening intensity, his tongue a bold, claiming invasion that tasted of pure, unadulterated want. The air grew thick, charged with the unspoken language of desire, every shift and sigh a testament to the building storm. In that suspended moment, there was only the exquisite, shuddering promise of what was to come, a precipice felt in the very marrow of their bones.
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