Wicked
Jane Wilde, Lily Larimar, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to curdle with the heat of their collision, a thick, palpable tension that clung to skin like a second layer. His fingers, tracing the frantic map of her spine, were not gentle but possessive, a brand of pure intention that left invisible marks far deeper than any bruise. She arched agat him, a wordless surrender that was also a demand, her nails scoring a parallel path down the sweat-slicked plane of his back. The world had narrowed to this single point of contact, the ragged symphony of their breathing drowning out the distant hum of the city. Every shift, every gasp, was a further dismantling of restraint, a deliberate shedding of civilized pretense. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his breath a hot, damp promise agat her pulse, a rhythm that hammered in wild syncopation with her own. The taste of salt and desperation was a shared language on their lips, a silent confession of needs too long suppressed. There was no thought, only sensation—the slide of damp skin, the sharp bite of a buckle agat a thigh, the guttural sound torn from his throat as she yielded completely. This was not love, but something far more primal, a raw and beautiful fracturing of two souls laid utterly bare.
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