Wicked
Kendra Spade, Seth Gamble Pic(s)
His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path down the curve of my spine, a whisper of contact that sent a cascade of shivers across my skin. The air grew thick and heavy, charged with the scent of his cologne and the warmth of our bodies so close together. Each deliberate movement was a silent question, and my arching back was the only answer I could give. When his palm finally settled low on my hip, a jolt of pure electricity surged through me, stealing the breath from my lungs. My head fell back as his mouth found the sensitive hollow of my throat, his lips branding me with a heat that felt both possessive and reverent. A low, helpless sound escaped me, the first of three broken exhalations that were not words but pure, unfiltered sensation. The second was a gasp as his hand slid lower, pulling me firmly agat the hard line of his body, erasing any last semblance of space between us. The third was a shuddering plea into the quiet room, a final surrender to the overwhelming tide of pleasure that began to crest deep within my core. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the feeling of his skin on mine and the profound, echoing silence that followed my breathless, involuntary cries.
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