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India Summer, Kate Kastle Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick with the scent of salt and jasmine, a heady perfume that clung to their skin as their bodies finally met. Her fingers, trembling with a nervous energy she could no longer contain, traced the delicate ridge of a collarbone, feeling the frantic pulse just beneath the surface. A sharp intake of breath was the only sound, a punctuation in the heavy silence before her lips found the soft hollow of a throat. The taste was intoxicating, a mixture of anticipation and the faint, clean smell of soap from an earlier shower. Arching into the touch, a low moan escaped, vibrating agat the mouth that was now exploring the gentle slope of a breast. The world outside the window, with its distant city lights, ceased to exist as hands learned the landscape of hips and the curve of a spine. Every movement was a question answered by a yielding pressure, a silent language of desire spoken through shifting limbs and tangled sheets. The only light came from the flickering screen, casting long, dancing shadows that merged their forms into one undulating silhouette agat the wall. In that charged darkness, a single tear traced a path down a cheek, not of sorrow, but of overwhelming, breathtaking release.
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