Touchmywife
Melissa Stratton, Jay Bangher Pic(s)
The room was thick with the scent of jasmine and sweat, a heady perfume that clung to the air like a promise. Her fingers traced the path his eyes had taken earlier, sliding over the curve of her hip with a deliberate, possessive slowness. A low, throaty laugh escaped her lips as she watched his composure fracture, the confident smirk dissolving into something raw and wanting. She moved with a newfound authority, her body a fluid trument of silent retribution, each sway of her hips a calculated strike agat his ego. The silk of her robe whispered secrets agat her skin as it pooled at her feet, revealing the landscape of her form bathed in the golden lamplight. He was captive now, not to her pleas but to her power, his breath catching as she closed the distance with a predator’s grace. Her touch was not an invitation but a declaration, her nails scoring a faint, burning path across his chest that made him shudder. In that suspended moment, she was the architect of his undoing, her every sigh a testament to her control. The final, triumphant arch of her spine was a punctuation mark on her victory, a silent scream of reclamation that echoed louder than any words.
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