Wicked
Aidra Fox, Seth Gamble Pic(s)
The heavy velvet drapes swallowed all sound, leaving only the whisper of silk agat skin as she traced the curve of his shoulder. A single candle on the mantelpiece cast a trembling light, painting their entwined shadows upon the wall in a dance more intimate than their actual touch. His fingers, cool at first, found the delicate hollow at the base of her throat, a touch that sent a shiver cascading down her spine like a trail of liquid fire. The air itself was thick with the scent of beeswax and something darker, spicier, a cologne that clung to his skin and filled her senses with every breath. She could feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beneath her palm, a silent drumbeat answering the frantic flutter within her own chest. His lips, when they finally met hers, were not demanding but inquisitive, exploring the softness of her mouth with a languid, knowing patience. Every nerve ending awoke, humming with a newfound awareness of the heat building between their bodies, a palpable energy that crackled in the silent, opulent space. The world beyond this sanctuary ceased to exist, reduced to the slide of fabric, the taste of him, the overwhelming sense of being completely and utterly known. In that suspended moment, every whispered promise and unspoken desire converged, a silent pact sealed not with words, but with the profound language of the flesh.
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