Wicked
Kenna James, Nathan Bronson Pic(s)
The last sliver of sun bled away behind the jagged horizon, surrendering the world to a deep, velvety indigo. A heavy, expectant silence descended, broken only by the whisper of a warm breeze that carried the scent of night-blooming jasmine and distant, damp earth. ide the room, the air grew thick and honeyed, clinging to the skin with a palpable weight that made every slight movement feel deliberate and slow. The only illumination came from the faint, silvered moonlight filtering through the window, casting long, dancing shadows that caressed the curve of a bare shoulder and the dip of a spine. A single bead of perspiration traced a languid path from a temple down a neck, its journey a tiny, cool revelation agat the rising heat simmering just beneath the surface. Fingertips, light as moth wings, began a slow exploration, mapping the familiar yet always thrilling landscape of a hip, feeling the subtle tremor that answered their touch. A low, soft sigh escaped into the stillness, not a word, but a complete language of its own that spoke of aching want and patient anticipation. The space between their bodies diminished not with a rush, but with an agonizingly gradual pull, a magnetic force as inevitable as the tide. Every sense was heightened to an almost painful acuity, from the sound of a sharp, indrawn breath to the taste of salt and skin on the air, as the darkness wrapped itself around them like a silken shroud.
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