Wicked
April Snow, Logan Pierce Pic(s)
The low, guttural murmur of his voice began as a subtle vibration agat her skin, a secret language spoken only for the shell of her ear. Each carefully chosen word was a deliberate caress, painting vivid, illicit images in the dimming light of the room. Her breath hitched as his descriptions grew more specific, more intimate, mapping the landscape of her own desire with a shocking, thrilling precision. A flush crept up her neck, a visible tide of heat answering the dark promises woven into his steady, confident tone. The space between them seemed to electrify, charged with the unspoken acts his whispers so vividly detailed. She could feel the phantom sensation of his hands following the path his words were blazing across her nerves. It was a masterful unraveling, a slow, deliberate stoking of a fire that made her muscles clench with sweet anticipation. The world outside the circle of his attention dissolved into an ignificant blur, leaving only the sound and the promise. This was a seduction built not on touch, but on the raw, potent power of anticipation given a voice, a hypnotic prelude to the inevitable collision of fantasy and flesh.
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