The Art of Wanting

His lips hover just shy of hers—close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath, sweet with whispered promises. *"You taste like flower,"* he murmurs against her ear, his voice a slow stroke down her spine. She shivers, fingers twitching against her own skin before he catches her wrist, his thumb tracing idle circles.

He doesn’t rush.

His hands slide to her waist, possessive but patient, as his mouth ghosts along her jaw—close enough to tease, never quite touching. She arches into the nearness, every exhale between them laced with her perfume and his cologne, something dark and addictive. When his fingers finally graze her neck, she’s already melting, tangling her hands in his hair to drag him closer.

The first brush of lips is soft. A test. A *taunt*.

Then the world narrows to the slick slide of tongues, the bite of teeth, the way his groan vibrates against her mouth as she pulls him deeper. Time bends. Nothing exists but this: the dizzying push-pull, the ache building low in her belly, the sheer *rightness* of how he kisses like he’s memorizing her.

*"Again,"* she breathes between kisses—already addicted to the way he ruins her, one slow, searing touch at a time."