Wicked
Whitney Wright, Small Hands Pic(s)
The supple leather embraced her throat like a second skin, its silver clasp cool agat her fluttering pulse as his fingers traced the edge where restraint met surrender. Each measured breath she took carried his scent of sandalwood and desire, weaving through the air thick with unspoken promises and the soft rustle of silk agat bare skin. His palms slid down her arms with deliberate slowness, igniting trails of fire along her nerves until they reached her wrists where matching bands awaited his attention. Moonlight spilled through the window, painting silver streaks across their entangled forms and glinting off the polished fastenings that symbolized this sacred trust between them. A low murmur escaped his lips, not quite words but a vibration that resonated deep within her bones, speaking of possession and devotion in the same heated exhalation. She arched agat him, every muscle taut with anticipation yet perfectly pliant beneath his knowing touch, her world narrowing to the space where their bodies met and melted together. The gentle pressure of his knee between her thighs became both anchor and invitation, a silent question to which her trembling sigh was the only answer needed. In the hush between heartbeats, she felt the truth of this moment settle in her soul—not as cha but as wings, not as confinement but as boundless flight tethered only by mutual yearning. His eyes, dark pools of unwavering focus, held hers captive more surely than any physical bond ever could, reflecting back the complete surrender she offered freely.
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