Puretaboo
Vanna Bardot, Steve Holmes Pic(s)
The first button gave way with a quiet sigh, a small release of pressure that seemed to echo in the charged space between them. His fingers, warm and deliberate, traced the newly revealed path of skin, a slow cartography of anticipation. The fabric, heavy and dark, fell away from her shoulder to pool in the crook of her arm, baring a pale slope to the dim light. A breath caught in her throat, not from the cool air, but from the intensity of his gaze as it followed the path his hands had blazed. The scent of her, clean skin and something uniquely floral, rose to meet him, an intoxicating perfume that promised more secrets to be unveiled. He could feel the faint, rapid flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb where it rested agat her collarbone, a wild bird caged by delicate bone. Each subsequent surrender of cloth was a silent confession, a layer of pretense dissolving under his patient, searching touch. The lamplight caught the sheen of a fine perspiration on her chest, mapping the quiet heat building within. This was not a conquest, but an archaeology of desire, each revealed inch a deeper stratum of a long-buried verity.
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