Wicked
Lacy Lennon, Seth Gamble Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick with the scent of skin and anticipation, a heavy perfume that clung to every surface. His gaze was a physical touch, a slow, deliberate caress that traveled from the curve of her shoulder down the length of her spine, leaving a trail of invisible heat in its wake. A single finger, calloused and sure, traced the delicate line of her collarbone before his palm settled possessively agat the base of her throat, feeling the frantic rhythm of her pulse. She arched into the contact, a silent, yielding answer to the unspoken question hanging between them. The world outside the single lit lamp dissolved into a blur of shadows, the only reality the solid warmth of his body pressing her into the yielding softness of the sheets. A low, guttural sound escaped him as her nails lightly scored his back, a primal language that needed no translation. Every movement was a deliberate, languid exploration, a mapping of familiar territory made new by raw, unfiltered hunger. The slide of skin agat skin was a whisper and a promise, a friction that built with each shared, ragged breath. In that suspended moment, there was nothing but the consuming fire of touch and the profound, aching need to be utterly possessed.
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