Wicked
Sarah Vandella, Jake Adams Pic(s)
The room was a sanctuary of shadows, the only light a sliver of moonlight that dared to caress the curve of her spine as she moved agat him, a secret rhythm known only to their tangled limbs. His hands, warm and possessive, mapped the unfamiliar territory of her skin, learning the delicate geography of this new alliance with a reverence that felt both sacred and profane. Every sigh that escaped her lips was a confession breathed into the hollow of his throat, a promise of complicity that made the very air thick with the scent of her perfume and their shared transgression. The silk sheets whispered beneath them, a hushed audience to the slow, deliberate arch of her back, a silent offering to the night. He watched the pulse flutter at the base of her neck, a frantic bird trapped in a gilded cage, and knew his own heart beat in the same treacherous tempo. In this clandestine world, time itself seemed to suspend, each touch a deliberate, drawn-out moment that erased the world waiting beyond the locked door. The weight of his gaze upon her was as tangible as a physical touch, igniting a flush that spread across her chest like a slow-blooming dawn. This was a language spoken without words, a symphony composed of hitched breaths, the soft friction of skin, and the profound silence of a vow broken with every shuddering breath. Here, in the quiet ruin of their promises, they found a devastating, perfect harmony.
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