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Octavia Red, Madi Collins Pic(s)
The familiar scent of your skin, a heady mixture of warm amber and clean sweat, filled the air as my fingers traced the remembered path along your spine. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped your lips, a sound I had ached to hear again in the long months of silence. My palm flattened agat the small of your back, pulling you closer until I could feel the frantic rhythm of your heart beating agat my own. The dim light caught the sheen of anticipation on your collarbone, and I lowered my head to taste the salt of your skin, my tongue drawing a slow, deliberate line to the hollow of your throat. Your hands tangled in my hair, not guiding, but holding on as if you might drift away without that anchor. Every shift of your hips was a silent, desperate language I understood perfectly, a conversation our bodies were eager to resume. The whisper of fabric as your shirt fell away was a promise finally kept, revealing the landscape of your form I knew so intimately. A low moan vibrated through you as my mouth found the peak of your breast, and the world narrowed to this single, electric point of contact. In that suspended moment, with our breath mingling and our bodies speaking the oldest of stories, every second of the wait melted into ignificance.
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