Diabolic
Dakota James, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The weight of him settled into the hollow of my hips, a warm anchor pinning me to the rumpled sheets as the world narrowed to this single, breathless point of contact. His scent, a heady mix of clean sweat and the lingering spice of his cologne, filled every inhalation, becoming the only air I needed to survive. My fingers traced the powerful line of his back, feeling the shift and bunch of muscle beneath damp skin with each deliberate, rolling motion. A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through my own, a primal sound that echoed the desperate ache building deep within my core. The heat of him was an inferno, searing through the thin barrier between us, promising a conflagration that threatened to consume all rational thought. My head fell back, eyes fluttering shut as a fresh wave of sensation crested, leaving me gasping, my nails digging faint crescents into his shoulders. Every nerve ending was alight, singing a chorus of pure need that drowned out the soft rustle of cotton and the frantic rhythm of our joined heartbeats. He shifted his angle slightly, and a sharp, exquisite pleasure shot through me, a lightning strike that made my entire body arch and tremble beneath his solid frame. In that suspended moment, there was nothing but the exquisite friction, the shared heat, and the overwhelming certainty of the impending, shattering release.
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