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India Summer, Ashlyn Rae Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken with the scent of warm skin and anticipation as her lips finally met the delicate hollow of the other woman’s throat, a silent question answered by a sharp, shuddering intake of breath. Fingertips, trembling with a current of their own, traced the elegant line of a collarbone before venturing lower to brush agat the soft swell of a breast, feeling the frantic heartbeat beneath the smooth surface. A low, guttural moan escaped as a thumb circled a hardening peak, the sound swallowed by the warm, salty skin of a shoulder. She could taste the faint, clean perspiration of desire, a primal flavor that made her head spin with a dizzying hunger. Her own body arched in response, a silent plea for more contact, for the delicious friction that promised to erase all thought. The world narrowed to the space between their bodies, to the slick heat of mouths meeting in a desperate, searching kiss that spoke of long-denied need. Every nerve ending felt alive, singing with the exquisite pressure of a thigh pressed firmly between her own, creating a rhythm as ancient as the tides. Whispers, broken and incoherent, feathered agat damp skin, each syllable a promise and a confession tangled together. In that suspended moment, there was only the shared, breathless ascent, a symphony of gasps and tangled limbs moving toward an inevitable, shattering release.
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