Puretaboo
Aften Opal, Lucas Frost Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to hum with a new, possessive energy, thick with the scent of warm skin and the faint, metallic tang of anticipation. His gaze was a physical weight, a slow, deliberate exploration that traced the delicate line of her collarbone before descending lower, leaving a phantom heat in its wake. A single finger, calloused and sure, followed the path his eyes had blazed, skating over the subtle curve of her shoulder and down the length of her spine. She arched into the touch, a silent, yielding answer to the unspoken question hanging between them. The rustle of fabric as it slid from her body was a whisper of finality, a sound swallowed by the heavy silence of the room. His hands found the gentle swell of her hips, anchoring her as his mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, a hot, open-mouthed kiss that stole her breath. Every nerve ending sang a chorus of raw, unvarnished need, a desperate ache that pooled low in her belly. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the slick heat of skin agat skin and the ragged symphony of their breathing. This was not about asking, but about the primal, thrilling certainty of taking what was so freely, so wantonly, offered.
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