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Amiee Cambridge, Dre Strong Pic(s)
The grand competition’s final pressures still hummed in her ve like a fading electrical current as she stepped into the quiet sanctuary of her chamber. Her fingers, which had been clenched for hours, now trembled with a different sort of anticipation as they sought the first button of her stiff, formal attire. Each piece of clothing that fell away was a layer of public expectation shed, revealing the warm, yielding skin beneath that craved a more intimate touch. A soft sigh escaped her lips as the cool evening air whispered across her bare shoulders, a stark and delicious contrast to the heat pooling low in her belly. She let her head fall back, eyes closing, imagining strong, knowing hands replacing the ghost of her own, tracing the delicate curve of her spine. The imagined scent of clean male skin and faint musk filled her senses, a phantom presence that made her breath catch. In her mind, those hands were not gentle, but purposeful, claiming the tension in her muscles and melting it away with deliberate, possessive strokes. A flush spread across her chest as the fantasy deepened, her own touch becoming a poor substitute for the weight and strength she yearned for. This was her true victory, this private unraveling where the only score kept was the rising cadence of her own heartbeat, thrumming a frantic, glorious rhythm in the silent, waiting dark.
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