21Sextury
Francys Belle, Kristof Cale Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the unspoken promise of a long-awaited touch. His gaze was a physical weight, tracing the delicate line of her collarbone as she let the silk slip from her shoulders, a slow cascade of fabric pooling at her feet. The only light came from the single candle, its flame dancing and casting long, possessive shadows that caressed the curve of her hip. A sharp, quiet intake of breath was the only sound as his fingers finally bridged the distance, not grasping but simply resting agat the small of her back, a brand of heat through the thin barrier of her skin. She arched into the contact, a silent plea that spoke volumes, her head tilting back to expose the vulnerable column of her throat. His lips found that offered pulse point, not with haste, but with a deliberate, exploring pressure that made her knees weaken. The scent of him, clean sweat and something darker, like sandalwood, filled her senses as his hands began a slow, deliberate journey upwards, mapping the terrain of her spine. Every nerve ending awoke, singing a chorus of pure sensation as the last vestiges of restraint dissolved like sugar on the tongue. This was not a capture, but a mutual surrender to the raw, thrilling current that had finally been set free.
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