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Kiera Winters, Lizz Tayler Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with a new and potent gravity as his gaze held mine, a silent question that my own wide eyes answered with a tremor of anticipation. His fingers, when they finally traced the line of my jaw, were not demanding but impossibly gentle, a whisper of heat agat my skin that sent a cascade of shivers down my spine. I felt the world narrow to this single point of contact, the rustle of fabric and the soft sound of our breathing the only music in the room. As he leaned in, the scent of him—clean soap and something uniquely male—filled my senses, a dizzying perfume that made my head swim. The first brush of his lips agat mine was not a conquest but an exploration, a tender, hesitant pressure that bloomed into a slow, deepening warmth. My hands, clumsy with nerves, found the solid plane of his back, feeling the shift of powerful muscles beneath his shirt, a latent strength held in careful check. Every nerve ending awoke, alight with a strange and beautiful fire, mapping the new territory of his touch as his hand slid to the small of my back. A soft, involuntary sound escaped my throat, a surrender to the overwhelming rightness of this collision of selves, this delicious, terrifying unraveling of everything I thought I knew. In that suspended moment, there was no past or future, only the profound, shuddering present, a universe discovered within the space of a single, shared breath.
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