Wicked
Coco Lovelock, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to pulse with a feverish heat, thick with the scent of sweat and something darker, something metallic and primal. His fingers, tracing a slow, deliberate path down the curve of her spine, felt like brands upon her skin, each touch a promise of delicious ruin. A low groan escaped his lips, vibrating through her own as he crushed his mouth to hers in a kiss that was less an affection and more a claiming. The world narrowed to the frantic rhythm of their hearts hammering agat each other, a frantic drumbeat syncopated with their ragged breaths. She arched agat him, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, not in protest but in a desperate plea for more, for everything. The rough texture of the worn sheets beneath them was a stark contrast to the slick heat growing between their entangled bodies. Every nerve ending felt exposed, raw and singing with an electric current that leapt from his skin to hers. He whispered words agat her throat, not of love but of possession, a litany of dark intent that made her shudder with anticipation. This was not gentle lovemaking; it was a collision of two desperate souls, a beautiful, terrifying descent into a shared madness where nothing existed but the next shuddering breath, the next searing touch.
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