Wicked
Liya Silver, Charlie Dean Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of their mingled sweat and the fading perfume of anticipation. His fingers, which had been tracing idle patterns on the small of her back, now pressed with a deliberate, claiming pressure, pulling her flush agat the hard line of his body. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat as her head fell back, exposing the pale, vulnerable column of her neck to the warmth of his breath. She could feel the frantic, answering rhythm of her own heart hammering agat his chest, a wild drumbeat echoing the pulse thrumming low in her belly. The world beyond their tangled limbs dissolved into an indistinct blur, the only reality the slick heat of skin on skin and the dark, searching look in his eyes. His mouth found hers not with gentleness, but with a raw, open-mouthed hunger that tasted of salt and desperation. Every nerve ending awoke, singing with an electric current that arched her spine and tangled her hands in the damp strands of his hair. This was no longer a prelude but a consuming fire, each movement a deliberate, escalating promise of a deeper, more complete surrender. The question of what would follow was lost, swallowed by the overwhelming, present-tense certainty of their joined bodies moving in a primal, ancient language.
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