Wicked
jessica drake, Brad Armstrong, Marcus London, Isiah Maxwell Pic(s)
The first offering began with the slow, deliberate unfastening of a single button, the sound a tiny percussive click in the charged silence between them. His gaze was a tangible weight, tracing the path of her fingers as they moved to the next fastening, revealing a sliver of skin that glowed like warm marble in the low light. A breath hitched, though neither could say from whose lips it truly escaped, as the fabric parted further to unveil the gentle swell of her breast. The air itself seemed to thicken, carrying the scent of her perfume—a daring blend of night-blooming jasmine and clean musk—that coiled around them both. He watched, mesmerized, as she guided his hand to replace her own, his calloused palm a stark contrast agat her impossible softness. Heat radiated from the point of contact, a silent promise that traveled up his arm and settled deep within his core. Her head tilted back, a silent invitation as his thumb brushed over a peak that hardened tantly beneath his touch. This was more than a simple transaction; it was a language spoken in shivers and shared warmth, a deliberate barter of vulnerability for a specific, building hunger. The world outside the room dissolved into irrelevance, leaving only the escalating rhythm of their breathing and the profound understanding of what was to come next.
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