Wicked
Anny Aurora, Derrick Pierce Pic(s)
The supple leather encircled her throat like a promise, cool at first before warming to the pulse that beat a frantic rhythm just beneath the skin. His hands, strong and sure, slid up her arms, his fingers tracing the delicate bones of her wrists before fastening the matching restraints with a soft, definitive click that echoed in the quiet room. A shiver, part anticipation and part surrender, cascaded down her spine as he drew her close, the scent of him—clean soap and something darker, uniquely male—filling her senses. The world narrowed to the space between their bodies, the heat of his chest searing through the thin fabric of her dress, a silent conversation of want and need. He tilted her chin up, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that stole her breath, a silent command she was eager to obey. When his lips finally met hers, it was not a question but a claiming, a slow, deep exploration that tasted of midnight secrets and shared longing. Every point of contact sang with electricity, from the gentle pressure at her neck to the firm grasp on her arms, binding her to the moment and to him. She melted agat him, her body pliant and willing, a silent testament to the trust that made this confinement feel like the ultimate freedom. In that suspended breath, there was only the two of them, wrapped in an intimacy that was as much about the soul as it was the flesh, a perfect, breathless union.
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