Wicked
Kenna James, Darcie Dolce Pic(s)
The air between us thickened with unspoken confessions as her laughter faded into a soft, knowing sigh. My gaze traced the delicate curve of her neck, following a path my fingers ached to travel, watching the faint pulse there quicken in the lamplight. The scent of her perfume, something warm and floral, wrapped around me like an intimate secret we were finally sharing. When her hand found mine, the simple touch sent a current of pure heat radiating up my arm, settling low in my belly. I watched her lips part, glistening and inviting, and I knew I was drowning in the deep, dark pools of her eyes. The space between our bodies vanished as she leaned in, her warmth seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt, a promise of what was to come. Her breath ghosted across my skin, a whisper of mint and anticipation that made my own catch in my throat. Every rational thought dissolved into the sensation of her fingertips gently tracing my jawline, a feather-light exploration that set my entire being alight. In that suspended moment, the world fell away, leaving only the electric hum of desire and the profound certainty that this was where I was always meant to be.
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