Wicked
Lena Paul, Troy Francisco Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with a palpable tension that hummed between them like a plucked string. His gaze was a physical weight, tracing the delicate line of her collarbone before descending, a slow, deliberate exploration that left a phantom heat in its wake. A single finger, calloused and warm, lifted to gently trace the contour of her jaw, a silent question posed agat the yielding softness of her skin. She felt the whisper of his breath first, a warm caress that stirred the fine hairs at her temple, a prelude to the inevitable closing of the scant distance. When his lips finally met the sensitive hollow beneath her ear, it was not a kiss of possession but of discovery, a soft, lingering pressure that sent a shiver cascading down her spine. Her own hands rose, not to push away but to anchor herself, her fingers curling into the firm fabric of his shirt, feeling the solid warmth of his chest beneath. A low, approving murmur vibrated from his throat into her very bones, a sound that spoke of a shared, unspoken consent to this intimate trespass. The world beyond their shared breath dissolved into an indistinct blur, the only reality the escalating rhythm of their hearts and the intoxicating scent of his skin. In that suspended moment, every unspoken rule was rewritten by the language of touch, a silent, searing conversation that promised more.
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