Diabolic
Scarlet Skies, Mike Mancini Pic(s)
The air in the dimly lit room was thick with the scent of old leather and his expensive cologne, a fragrance that tantly unspooled a decade of forgotten memories deep within her. His large, familiar hand, its knuckles mapped with ve she used to trace as a girl, came to rest on the small of her back, a possessive weight that felt both terrifying and like a homecoming. She could feel the heat of his body through the thin silk of her dress, a silent promise that made her breath catch in her throat. His other hand rose to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse at the base of her neck with an agonizing slowness. When his lips finally met hers, it was not a gentle kiss but a claiming, a desperate, hungry exploration that tasted of whiskey and long-suppressed yearning. A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her own as he pulled her closer, erasing the last sliver of space between them. Her fingers tangled in the crisp fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as the world outside the single window blurred into ignificance. Every rational thought dissolved under the deliberate pressure of his mouth, leaving only the raw, aching need to feel his skin agat hers. In that suspended moment, the past and the present collided, and every unresolved question was answered with the language of touch.
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