Diabolic
Allison Moore, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of salt and skin and the sweet anticipation of what was to come. His thumb traced the delicate line of her jaw, a gentle but firm pressure that tilted her head back, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat to the warm, dim light. A low, possessive sound rumbled in his chest as he watched the pulse flutter wildly beneath her pale skin, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. Her lips, parted and slick, glistened with the evidence of their shared passion, a promise and a surrender held in the space between their breaths. He moved with an agonizing slowness, his intent clear in the dark focus of his gaze, a silent command that brooked no argument. The taste of him, rich and musky, still bloomed on her tongue, a lingering memory she was forbidden to fully consume. Every muscle in her body was drawn taut, a wire humming with the effort of restraint, of holding back the tinctive, deep need to take all of him ide. A single, traitorous drop escaped the corner of her mouth, tracing a hot, slow path down her chin before his thumb caught it, smearing the moisture back onto her swollen lips. In that suspended moment, the denial itself became the most intimate act, a shared secret that bound them tighter than any consummation could.
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