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Anita Dark, Zoe Britton Pic(s)
The first touch was not of skin, but of a gaze, a slow, deliberate meeting of eyes across the dimly lit room that stripped away all pretense. She moved with a liquid grace, the silk of her dress whispering secrets agat her thighs as she closed the distance, her scent of night-blooming jasmine and warm skin preceding her. Her fingers, cool and sure, traced the line of a jaw, a touch so feather-light it was almost a memory, yet it sent a shiver straight to the core. A thumb brushed a lower lip, parting it slightly, and the shared breath that followed was hotter and more intimate than any kiss. The soft groan that escaped was swallowed by the press of bodies, the crush of fabric giving way to the astonishing heat of a bare waist beneath a palm. A mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of a throat, tasting salt and desire, a silent language understood perfectly. Hips arched tinctively, seeking pressure, finding it in the solid cradle of another, a slow, grinding rhythm beginning of its own accord. Fingertips explored the delicate ridge of a spine, descending with agonizing slowness to the small of a back, eliciting a gasp that broke into a sigh. In that hushed space, there was only the symphony of ragged breaths, the slide of skin on skin, and the dawning, exquisite truth of a mutual hunger being sated.
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