Wicked
Maddy May, Codey Steele Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to pulse with a feverish heat, thick with the scent of salt and something wilder, something untamed. His gaze was a physical weight upon her skin, a slow, deliberate exploration that left a trail of invisible fire in its wake. A single bead of sweat traced a languid path from her temple, curving along the line of her jaw before dropping onto her collarbone. She arched her back, a silent offering, as his fingers finally made contact, not with flesh, but with the cool metal of a buckle that gave way with a soft, definitive click. The rustle of fabric sliding to the floor was the only sound, a whisper that screamed of surrender and anticipation. His mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, his tongue a brand that stole her breath and promised ruin. Every nerve ending was alight, a constellation of raw sensation mapping the places where their bodies met and merged. The world narrowed to this single, desperate point of contact, a chaotic symphony of touch and taste and muffled cries. In the dim light, their movements became a primal language, a dance of possession and yielding that left no room for thought, only feeling.
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