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Marilyn Johnson, Erin Everheart Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken with the scent of their exertion, a heady perfume of salt and desire that clung to their damp skin. His hands, calloused and sure, mapped the delicate architecture of her spine, each vertebra a small, yielding peak beneath his questing touch. A low, guttural sound escaped her lips as he found the sensitive hollow at the base of her neck, his mouth leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Her own fingers tangled in the dark silk of his hair, not to guide but to anchor herself agat the rising tide of sensation. The world had narrowed to this single point of contact, the slide of flesh agat flesh, the sharp intake of breath that was both question and answer. Every movement was a slow, deliberate exploration, a languid dance where control was perpetually offered and reclaimed. She arched agat him, a silent plea that was answered by the deepening pressure of his hips, a promise of the storm to come. The only light came from the dying embers in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows that mimicked their own entangled forms upon the walls. In that suspended moment, before the final, shattering release, there was only the exquisite tension of a bowstring fully drawn, humming with potential.
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