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Kendra Spade, Vanna Bardot Pic(s)
The room was bathed in the soft, honeyed glow of a single lamp, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of their shared breath. Her fingers, delicate and sure, traced a path from a trembling jawline down the elegant column of a throat, feeling the quickened flutter of a pulse beneath the skin. A sigh, warm and yielding, escaped parted lips as the other woman arched into the touch, her own hands sliding up to tangle in the silken strands of dark hair. The air grew thick with the scent of jasmine and warm skin, a heady perfume that clouded thought and heightened every sense. She leaned in, her lips finding not the mouth, but the delicate hollow of a collarbone, planting a kiss that was both a question and a promise. The response was a shudder that ran through the entire body beneath her, a silent, desperate plea for more. Fingertips found the small of a back, pressing firmly to erase the last sliver of space between them, until their curves melted together in a seamless embrace. A low, throaty murmur, wordless but full of meaning, vibrated agat her ear as the world outside the circle of light ceased to exist. In that suspended moment, there was only the language of touch, the map of desire being written anew upon willing, feverish skin.
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