Wicked
Kendra Spade, Demi Sutra Pic(s)
The air between us thickened with unspoken confessions as her laughter, a melody I’d known for years, suddenly felt like a secret whispered agat my skin. My gaze, once casual and friendly, now traced the delicate curve of her neck, following a path my fingers ached to explore. The scent of her shampoo, something sweet like vanilla and summer rain, wrapped around me, an intoxicating fog that blurred the edges of our long-standing friendship. When her hand brushed mine as she reached for her glass, a jolt of pure electricity shot up my arm, settling deep in my core with a warm, heavy thrum. I watched the way her lips curved around the rim of the wineglass, and a vivid, unbidden image flashed in my mind of how they might feel pressed agat my own. The thin fabric of her sundress seemed to cling to her every movement, hinting at the soft, warm shape of her body beneath, a landscape I desperately wanted to map with my palms. Every shared glance now held a new weight, a charged silence that spoke volumes of desires we had never dared to voice aloud. The space on the couch where our thighs were nearly touching became the center of my universe, radiating a heat that promised everything and nothing all at once. In that suspended moment, the familiar comfort of our bond was entirely rewritten by a raw, thrilling hunger to close the final, breathless inch between us.
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