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Madi Meadows, Katie Morgan Pic(s)
The realtor’s voice became a distant hum as she led them into the master suite, its vaulted ceiling creating a cathedral-like silence that seemed to magnify the unspoken current between them. Her hand, which had been casually brushing agat her partner’s lower back as they toured the empty rooms, now settled there with a deliberate, possessive weight. She turned her slightly, their bodies aligning in the soft afternoon light filtering through the bay window, dust motes dancing around them like tiny stars. The scent of her perfume, a faint mix of jasmine and warm skin, filled the space between their faces as their foreheads gently touched. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips as she watched the subtle dilation of her lover’s pupils, a dark pool of wanting in the quiet gloom. Her thumb traced a slow, hypnotic circle over the thin fabric of the other woman’s blouse, feeling the responsive shiver that ran through the slender frame. The air grew thick, charged with the palpable heat of their shared anticipation, making the spacious room feel intimately small. Leaning in, she captured her mouth in a kiss that was not hungry, but deeply exploratory, a tender mapping of familiar territory made new by their clandestine circumstance. In that suspended moment, the house ceased to be a property for sale and transformed into a sanctuary of their own making, a promise whispered through touch.
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