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Bree Daniels, Elle Alexandra Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of her perfume and the faint, clean salt of anticipation. My fingers, trembling only slightly, traced the delicate line of her collarbone, feeling the frantic pulse that beat there in time with my own. A soft sigh escaped her lips as I leaned in, my mouth finding the sensitive hollow of her throat, tasting the warmth of her skin. Her hands rose to tangle in my hair, not guiding, but holding, a silent plea for more as her back arched agat the pillows. I moved lower, my lips charting a slow, deliberate course over the swell of her breast, feeling her shudder beneath me. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the sound of her ragged breathing and the feel of silk giving way to heat. When my tongue finally circled a taut peak, she cried out, a broken sound that was pure music, her hips lifting from the mattress. Every movement was a conversation, a shared discovery of pressure and rhythm that built like a wave gathering force. We crested together, a silent, shattering release that left us breathless and entwined in the fading light.
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