Wicked
Aaliyah Love, Jake Adams Pic(s)
The world dissolved into the space between our lips, a universe contained within the first hesitant touch that tasted of rain and reckless possibility. His hand, a slow and deliberate heat, found the arch of my back, pressing until the silk of my dress became a whisper agat my skin, a barrier as thin as a sigh. Every nerve ending awoke, a constellation of sensation mapping the path his fingers traced along my spine, each vertebra a stepping stone into unknown territory. The scent of him, clean linen and something darker, like aged whiskey, filled my lungs with every ragged breath I managed to steal. I could feel the steady, heavy thrum of his heart agat my chest, a primal drumbeat syncing with the frantic rhythm of my own. A low sound, part groan and part surrender, vibrated from his throat into mine, a language more ancient than words. My fingers tangled in the rough texture of his hair, pulling him closer, erasing the last sliver of polite distance between our bodies. The room, with its muted lights and distant city sounds, ceased to exist, leaving only the pressing weight of his thigh between mine and the electric promise of what came next. This was not a story I had ever read, but one my body was writing in real time, a narrative of skin and breath more intoxicating than any fiction.
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