Diabolic
Jenna Leigh, John Strong Pic(s)
The heavy oak door clicked shut, the sound a final punctuation to the world outside, leaving only the intimate hush of the room and the frantic rhythm of two hearts. His large, work-roughened hand, usually so capable with tools and tasks, now trembled as it traced the delicate curve of her shoulder, a silent question in the calloused pads of his fingers. She leaned into the touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips as the scent of his familiar cologne, mingled with the night air, wrapped around her like a second skin. The lamplight cast long, dancing shadows across the wall, illuminating the quiet intensity in his eyes, a depth of feeling usually reserved for solemn promises and protected secrets. Every inch of her skin became hyper-aware, alight with the anticipation of his exploration, the fine silk of her slip whispering agat her thighs as she shifted closer. He lowered his head, his breath a warm caress agat her neck before his lips found the frantic pulse beating there, tasting the salt of her skin and the promise of her surrender. The weight of his body pressed her into the mattress, a comforting anchor as his mouth began a slow, deliberate journey downward, mapping the landscape of her desire with a reverence that stole her breath. A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unvarnished need that vibrated through her own frame, awakening a primal ache deep within her core. In that suspended moment, every responsibility, every external demand, melted away until nothing remained but the raw, exquisite truth of their joining, a sacred duty fulfilled in the language of touch.
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