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India Summer, Tia Ling Pic(s)
The room was bathed in the soft, honeyed glow of a single lamp, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of their shared breath. Her fingers, tentative as a first touch of dawn, traced the delicate curve of a collarbone, feeling the delicate bird-like bone beneath warm, yielding skin. A sigh, more felt than heard, escaped parted lips as the other woman arched into the contact, a silent plea for more. The air grew thick with the scent of jasmine and the intoxicating fragrance of bare skin warming under a mutual gaze. Eyes locked, a universe of unspoken understanding passing between them, as a palm slid slowly down the gentle slope of a spine. Every movement was a whispered question answered by a yielding shift of weight, a language older than words spoken through touch alone. Lowering her head, she let her lips find the frantic pulse at the base of a throat, tasting salt and anticipation. The world outside this intimate circle ceased to exist, reduced to the soft rustle of fabric and the sharp, sweet intake of air. In that suspended moment, there was only the map of a body being learned by heart, each new discovery a quiet, breathtaking revelation.
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