Wicked
Kristen Scott, Seth Gamble Pic(s)
The sharp scent of ozone and rain-soaked pavement clung to the cool night air, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from the two bodies pressed together in the dimly lit alley. His fingers, calloused and sure, traced the delicate line of her jaw before tangling in the damp strands at the nape of her neck, a possessive yet tender anchor. A low, appreciative groan rumbled in his chest as he tilted her head back, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat. She arched into him, a silent surrender, her own hands sliding beneath his leather jacket to feel the solid, living heat of his back through the thin cotton of his shirt. The world narrowed to the space between their mouths, the charged anticipation before the storm of their kiss finally broke. When his lips finally claimed hers, it was not gentle but hungry, a devouring pressure that spoke of pent-up longing and raw need. The taste of him was dark and complex, like whiskey and the promise of forgotten secrets, intoxicating her senses completely. Every nerve ending sang with the friction of denim agat denim, the hard planes of his body a perfect counterpoint to her softer curves. In that suspended moment, the city’s distant hum faded into nothing, leaving only the symphony of their ragged breaths and the electric silence of pure, unadulterated desire.
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