Wicked
Lydia Black, Ramon Nomar Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the dusty window screen, catching the shimmer of heat rising from the asphalt outside and illuminating the fine golden hairs on her arm. She shifted on the worn floral print couch, the vinyl sighing softly beneath her bare thighs as she stretched, a languid, cat-like motion that made her thin cotton sundress ride up. The air was thick with the scent of cheap perfume and the distant, greasy promise of dinner from a neighboring unit, a strangely intimate combination that clung to the skin. His gaze was a physical weight, tracing the delicate line of her collarbone down to where the fabric tightened across her chest with each slow, deliberate breath she took. A bead of sweat traced a path from her temple, down the side of her neck, disappearing into the shadowed hollow at the base of her throat, and he felt an almost unbearable urge to follow its path with his lips. The quiet was broken only by the low hum of an old refrigerator and the sharp, rhythmic click of a cicada, a sound that seemed to measure the rising tension in the room. She turned her head slowly, her eyes meeting his, and in their dark centers he saw not just invitation, but a raw, unvarnished hunger that mirrored his own. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, a quick, unconscious gesture that sent a jolt straight through him, and a slow, knowing smile began to curve the corners of her mouth. In that suspended moment, the entire world narrowed to this small, heated space, charged with the silent, electric understanding of what was to come.
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