Diabolic
Christy Love, Mark Zane Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to pulse with a low, shared heat, thick with the scent of warm skin and the faint, sweet anticipation of night-blooming jasmine. His hand found the small of my back, a possessive anchor that sent a tremor through my entire being, a silent promise of the motion to come. Our eyes locked, and in that gaze was an unspoken agreement to surrender to the rhythm we were about to create, a private dance of push and pull. I felt the solid strength of his body as he initiated the first arc, a gentle coaxing that lifted my feet from the solid ground and into a weightless drift. The world became a blur of starlight and shadow, my senses narrowing to the points of contact where our bodies met and moved as one. With each return, his grip tightened, pulling me closer agat him, the friction of our clothes a whisper agat the roaring silence of our need. My breath hitched as we reached the apex of the next arc, suspended for a heart-stopping moment where gravity ceased to exist and only his intent held me. The descent was a rush, a controlled fall back into the cradle of his arms, where the impact was softened by the yielding pressure of his chest agat mine. A low groan escaped his lips, vibrating through me, a sound that was both a command and a plea, sealing our pact in the warm, enveloping darkness.
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