Wicked
Cherry Kiss, Kalman Otto Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to hold its breath, thick with the scent of rain on hot pavement and the distant, sweet decay of night-blooming jasmine. He stood motionless by the window, the fine hairs on his arms rising not from the cool night air but from the electric anticipation humming just beneath his skin. Every second stretched into a taut wire, thrumming with the unspoken promise of her arrival. The slow, deliberate path of a single bead of sweat tracing the line of his spine became a profound event, a tiny, burning testament to the tension coiling in the pit of his stomach. He could almost feel the ghost of her touch already, a phantom pressure where her hand would soon rest, a whisper of warmth agat the small of his back. The low, steady thrum of the city outside faded into a dull roar, secondary to the deafening silence of the room and the frantic drum of his own heart. His knuckles were white where they gripped the windowsill, the cool wood a stark contrast to the feverish heat blooming under his shirt. The world had narrowed to this single point in time, this suspended moment before the storm, where every sense was heightened to an almost painful acuity. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, and the wait became a physical thing, a heavy, velvet cloak of desire draped over his shoulders, pulling him deeper into the exquisite agony of expectation.
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