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Ryan Keely, Jenna Foxx Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to breathe, thick with the scent of jasmine and warm skin as her gaze, dark and heavy-lidded, held mine from across the room. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips, a silent promise that sent a shiver cascading down my spine, pooling as a deep, liquid heat low in my belly. She moved then, a languid flow of muscle and grace, closing the distance until I could feel the warmth radiating from her body, a tantalizing preview of contact. Her fingers, when they finally brushed agat my jaw, were impossibly soft, yet their touch was electric, branding my skin with an intimate claim. I leaned into her palm, my eyes fluttering closed as I inhaled her unique fragrance, a intoxicating blend of night-blooming flowers and sheer, unadulterated desire. Her other hand settled on my hip, pulling me closer until the thin fabric of our dresses was the only barrier between our yearning forms. A low, throaty murmur escaped her, a vibration I felt more than heard, as she dipped her head to press her mouth to the pulse hammering at the base of my throat. The world dissolved into that single point of contact, a searing kiss that promised devouring passion and left me trembling with anticipation. Every rational thought fled, replaced only by the primal, aching need to feel her skin agat mine, to lose myself completely in the velvet darkness of her embrace.
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