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Alura Jenson, Van Wylde Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the warm, floral scent of her perfume mingling with a deeper, muskier anticipation. He watched, captivated, as she slowly arched her back, a movement that caused the heavy, generous curves of her chest to strain agat the delicate silk of her chemise. Each breath she took was a deliberate, languid event, making the soft fabric whisper promises agat her skin. His gaze was drawn to the deep shadow between those magnificent swells, a mysterious valley his fingers ached to explore. A knowing, smoldering smile touched her lips as she recognized the hunger in his eyes, a silent conversation passing between them. She brought a hand to her collarbone, tracing a path downward until her palm cupped the full, weighty warmth of one breast, her thumb brushing slowly over a peak that hardened tantly. The sight was an intoxicating blend of maternal softness and pure, unadulterated desire, a testament to a woman completely comfortable in her power. He moved closer, the space between them vanishing as he was enveloped by her heat and the intoxicating presence of her body. Finally, his own hands rose to meet her, not with haste, but with a reverent slowness that spoke of worship.
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