Addicted2Girls
Adriana Sephora, Vanessa Veracruz Pic(s)
The amber glow from the streetlamp outside his garret window caught the sheen of sweat on her collarbone as she arched agat him, a soft gasp escaping her lips to mingle with the distant hum of a Parisian night. His hands, calloused from hours at the easel, traced a slow, deliberate path down the curve of her spine, each touch a silent question answered by the yielding softness of her skin. The scent of old books and turpentine was overwhelmed by the intoxicating fragrance of their mingled heat, a primal perfume that filled the small room. She tangled her fingers in his dark hair, pulling him closer until their mouths met again in a deep, searching kiss that tasted of cheap red wine and boundless desire. The rough wool of the blanket beneath them scratched pleasantly agat her back, a stark contrast to the smooth, hard planes of his chest pressed agat her. Every whispered endearment was swallowed by the next kiss, each one deeper, more urgent than the last, as if they were trying to consume each other whole. The world outside, with its chattering students and clattering cobblestones, faded into an indistinct murmur, irrelevant agat the pounding rhythm of their own hearts. He moved agat her with a rhythm that was both ancient and entirely new, a silent language of need that she understood perfectly, her body rising to meet his every thrust. In that hushed, lamplit sanctuary, they were the only two people alive, a universe of sensation contained within four peeling walls.
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