Diabolic
Penelope Reed, Sean Michaels Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of him, a musky perfume of salt and skin that clung to the back of my throat with each heated breath. His large, work-roughened hand slid slowly up the pale skin of my thigh, the calluses catching faintly on the delicate fabric of my stockings, a whisper of possession that made my pulse flutter wildly. I could feel the solid warmth of his body radiating agat my side, a furnace contained within the quiet strength of his frame, promising a shelter that was also a delicious confinement. My own fingers trembled as they traced the powerful line of his jaw, feeling the subtle shift of muscle as he swallowed, a motion I watched with rapt attention. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, held mine with an intensity that stripped away all pretense, leaving only the raw, humming current of anticipation between us. He leaned in, and the world narrowed to the space where our lips were about to meet, a charged silence broken only by the ragged sound of our shared breathing. When the connection finally came, it was not gentle, but a claiming, a deep, languorous exploration that tasted of coffee and a uniquely masculine hunger. A low groan rumbled from his chest into mine, a vibration that traveled straight to my core, liquefying my resistance and replacing it with a desperate, aching need. In that moment, I was utterly consumed, lost not to a man, but to the overwhelming sensation of being completely, irrevocably known and desired.
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