Customer is Always Right: Scene 1

Puretaboo

Osa Lovely, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)

The air in the room was thick with the scent of polished wood and anticipation, a silent promise hanging between them as he finally closed the distance. His knuckles, rough from a day’s work, grazed the impossibly soft skin of her inner wrist, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core. A low, appreciative murmur escaped his lips as his other hand found the small of her back, pressing her gently agat the solid edge of the heavy oak counter. She arched into the pressure, a soft sigh escaping her as her head tilted back, exposing the delicate column of her throat to the warm light. He didn’t hesitate, lowering his mouth to that offered pulse point, his breath a hot, damp warning before his lips made contact. The taste of her skin was intoxicating, a faint saltiness mingling with the floral hint of her perfume, and he lingered there, nipping and soothing with his tongue. Her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, not pushing away but pulling him closer, her body molding to his with a will of its own. Every point of contact felt magnified, from the press of his thigh between hers to the way his chest crushed agat her yielding softness, creating a rhythm as old as time. In that suspended moment, the only truth was the language of their bodies, a silent, urgent negotiation of desire where every unspoken demand was met with a willing, breathless surrender.