Wicked
Kayley Gunner, Seth Gamble Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the dusty window screen, catching the shimmer of sweat on her lower back as she shifted on the worn floral sheets. A slow, languid fan pushed the thick, humid air around the small room, carrying the scent of cheap perfume and the distant promise of rain. His calloused hand traced a path from the delicate curve of her shoulder down the gentle slope of her spine, a journey of rough warmth over smooth, sun-kissed skin. She arched into his touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips as his fingers found the waistband of her cut-off shorts, hooking a thumb ide. The muffled sound of a radio playing a twangy love song from a neighboring home mixed with the rhythmic creak of the bedsprings, a soundtrack for their quiet, urgent movements. He buried his face in the nape of her neck, breathing in the intoxicating mixture of salt and summer, his other hand splaying across her stomach to pull her closer. Every sense was amplified—the feel of his stubble agat her sensitive skin, the sight of dust motes dancing in the golden light, the taste of his kiss still lingering on her tongue. It was a moment stolen from the heat of the day, a raw and honest connection that felt both fleeting and eternal. Their bodies moved together in a silent, primal language, speaking volumes in the hushed intimacy of the fading light.
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