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Aften Opal, Angel Youngs Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the sweet, musky scent of warm skin and spilled champagne, a heady perfume that clung to the back of the throat. Laughter, low and throaty, mingled with the heavy bass thrumming from the speakers, a vibration that traveled up through the floorboards and into the soles of her bare feet. Her fingers, slick with condensation from her glass, traced a slow, deliberate path down the damp curve of a spine, feeling the delicate ridges of vertebrae shift and tremble beneath her touch. A stray lock of hair, dark and silken, stuck to the flushed skin of a temple, and she watched the rapid, visible pulse at the base of a slender neck quicken its rhythm. The fabric of a tiny, sequined uniform was rough agat her palm as her hand slid from a narrow waist to the generous swell of a hip, pulling their bodies closer until not even a whisper could pass between them. Hot breath ghosted across her collarbone, followed by the soft, searching pressure of a mouth that tasted of sugar and secrets. Every sense was amplified, from the sight of parted lips glistening in the low light to the sound of a sharp, indrawn breath that was almost a sob. This was a world of whispered confessions and daring explorations, where the boundaries of the squad dissolved into something far more primal and intimate. In that charged space, surrounded by the warmth and movement of others, a single, knowing glance across the room promised a private celebration yet to come.
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