Diabolic
Kenzie Taylor, Will Powers Pic(s)
The heavy oak door swung inward with a familiar groan, and the scent of him—old leather, clean sweat, and the faint, sharp hint of evening rain—flooded the foyer, a visceral tide that made her breath catch. He stood there, a silhouette agat the fading twilight, his broad shoulders filling the frame, the journey etched in the slight slump of his posture. She moved without thought, her bare feet silent on the cool hardwood, her body drawn to his like a compass finding true north. His hands, calloused and strong, rose to meet her, one cupping the nape of her neck with a possessive gentleness that sent a shiver down her spine. The rough texture of his work jacket was a stark contrast to the soft silk of her robe as he pulled her close, his heat seeping through the thin fabric. She could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heart agat her cheek, a rhythm more familiar than her own. His other hand slid down the curve of her back, pressing her firmly agat the hard plane of his body, leaving no space for doubt or distance. He dipped his head, and his lips found hers not with haste, but with a slow, deliberate hunger that tasted of longing and homecoming. In that deep, claiming kiss, every day of absence dissolved, replaced by the overwhelming, intoxicating reality of his presence.
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