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Paisley Porter, Mike Mancini Pic(s)
The humid air clung to her skin like a second silk chemise as she moved through the unfamiliar room, her senses heightened by the thrill of transgression. Each deliberate step was a whisper agat the polished floorboards, a secret rhythm only she could hear. His gaze was a physical weight upon her, tracing the line of her spine through the thin fabric of her dress with an intensity that made her breath catch. When his fingers finally made contact, brushing the sensitive nape of her neck, a shiver of pure lightning arced down to the very soles of her feet. The scent of him, a clean mix of soap and something uniquely masculine, filled her lungs as he turned her to face him, his hands settling on the curve of her waist. She could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart agat her palm as she dared to press her hand to his chest, a silent answer to his unspoken question. His mouth found hers not with savage hunger, but with a slow, exploring pressure that tasted of promise and the faint, sweet trace of bourbon. A low, approving murmur vibrated from his throat into hers as her fingers tangled in the thick hair at the base of his skull, pulling him closer, deeper. In that suspended moment, the entire world contracted to the slick heat of their joined mouths and the thrilling pressure of his body aligning perfectly with hers, a perfect, desperate fit.
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