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Olive Glass, Jada Kai Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of her skin, a intoxicating blend of salt and jasmine that clung to my tongue. My fingers traced the delicate ridge of her spine, a slow, deliberate pilgrimage from the nape of her neck to the gentle swell just above her hips. She arched into my touch, a silent plea that vibrated through my palm, and I answered by lowering my mouth to the pulse hammering at the base of her throat. The taste of her was electric, a current that shot straight to my core, making my own breath catch. I could feel the soft give of her flesh beneath my lips as I journeyed lower, my hands cupping the perfect weight of her breasts, my thumbs circling the peaks until they hardened into desperate, aching points. A low moan escaped her, a sound that was part surrender and part command, and it fueled the fire burning low in my belly. My name was a whisper on her lips, a broken syllable that hung in the charged space between us as I finally, slowly, parted her thighs. The world narrowed to the slick, hot center of her, to the rhythm my fingers established, a language older than words. Every gasp, every shudder that wracked her body was a testament to the singular obsession of this moment, a complete and utter consumption of senses.
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