Diabolic
Colette, James Brossman Pic(s)
The weight of him settled into the very marrow of my bones, a heavy, welcome anchor in the swirling sea of my anticipation. His scent, a primal mix of clean sweat and warm skin, filled my lungs with every ragged breath I drew. I could feel the hard, istent pressure of his desire agat my thigh, a silent, potent promise that made my own body ache in response. My fingers traced the powerful line of his back, learning the landscape of muscle that shifted and tightened with his slightest movement. A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through me, a sound that was both a question and an answer. My own whisper was lost as his mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of my throat, his lips branding me with a heat that threatened to dissolve all rational thought. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the slick, fevered slide of skin agat skin in the dim, quiet room. Every nerve ending sang with a raw, electric awareness, tuned only to the rhythm he set, a slow, deliberate cadence that was unraveling me completely. This was all that existed, this exquisite friction, this building storm of sensation where thought ceased and only feeling remained, profound and absolute.
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