Wicked
Vina Sky, John Strong Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the unspoken promise of what was to come. His gaze was a physical weight, a slow, deliberate caress that traced the curve of her neck down to the frantic pulse at its base. A single finger, calloused and warm, hooked beneath the strap of her chemise, sliding it from her shoulder with an agonizing lack of haste. The whisper of silk surrendering to gravity was a sound more intimate than any moan. Her own breath hitched as his palm found the small of her back, pressing her forward until their bodies aligned, separated only by the thin, frustrating barrier of their clothes. She could feel the hard ridge of his desire agat her thigh, a potent answer to the liquid heat already pooling deep within her. His mouth found the sensitive hollow behind her ear, his breath a hot, damp promise agat her skin as his other hand slid lower, cupping her possessively. Every coherent thought dissolved into pure sensation, a surrender to the primal rhythm their bodies were beginning to create. This was not an invitation but a culmination, a raw and mutual descent into a shared, breathless hunger.
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