Wicked
Jodi Taylor, Mr. Pete Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the unspoken promise that hummed between them. His gaze, dark and heavy-lidded, traveled a slow, deliberate path from her eyes down to the part of her lips, a visual caress that felt more intimate than any touch. A single finger, calloused and warm, traced the delicate line of her collarbone, eliciting a shiver that was not from the cool evening. She leaned into the contact, her own hands finding the solid plane of his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart answering the quickening pulse in her wrists. The scent of his skin, a clean mix of soap and pure, warm male, filled her senses as he dipped his head, his breath a hot whisper agat the shell of her ear. Every nerve ending awoke, screaming with anticipation for the crush of his mouth on hers, for the final surrender to this building tension. The world outside their bubble of shared heat faded into an indistinct blur, meaningless agat the press of his body aligning with hers. There was only this moment, this breathless, aching need that coiled tight in her belly, a live wire sparking with potential. He finally closed the last inch of distance, and the contact was an electric shock, a perfect, consuming ignition of everything that had been simmering beneath the surface.
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