Wicked
Nikki Fox, Nikki Nuttz Pic(s)
The golden warmth of the afternoon bathed the secluded meadow, its light catching in the dewy beads of condensation on a half-empty glass of chilled wine. A soft, checkered blanket provided a gentle cushion agat the earth, its fabric whispering agat bare skin as she shifted, her head resting in his lap. His fingers, tracing idle, sun-warmed patterns along her shoulder, sent a cascade of delicate shivers down her spine. The sweet, heady scent of ripe strawberries mingled with the clean aroma of his skin, a perfume that made her head feel light. She could feel the solid, reassuring weight of his thigh beneath her cheek, a anchor in the lazy, humming silence broken only by the drone of bees. When his hand stilled, cupping the curve of her jaw, his thumb stroking the sensitive corner of her mouth, a slow, molten heat began to pool deep within her. Her lips parted on a silent sigh, tasting the salt on his skin as she turned to press a kiss into his palm, her own hand finding the sun-heated cotton covering his chest. The world narrowed to this patch of dappled shade, to the languid exploration of fingertips and the promise held in each shared, unsteady breath. This intimate feast of sensations, far removed from any formal dining, was a languorous celebration of touch and taste under the open sky.
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