21Sextury
Amanda Clarke, Mark Crow Pic(s)
The polished wooden board lay between them like a silent, intimate battlefield, its grid a promise of strategy and surrender. Her slender fingers, tipped with a blush of coral, hovered over a smooth black disc, her touch a whisper agat the cool surface. He watched, mesmerized, as she made her move, the piece sliding into a new square with a soft, definitive click that echoed in the quiet room. His own hand, broader and dusted with faint scars, followed, capturing one of her pieces with a gentle but undeniable authority. The air grew thick with the scent of her perfume, a hint of night-blooming jasmine that tangled with the clean, masculine smell of his skin. Each advance was a slow, deliberate dance, a building tension that tightened the space between their bodies leaning over the table. A flush crept up her neck as his knee accidentally brushed agat hers beneath the hidden expanse of the table, a spark of electricity that neither acknowledged aloud. The game was forgotten in the language of shared breaths and lingering glances, every move a veiled question and a silent answer. Finally, with the board nearly cleared, he reached across, not for a piece, but to cover her hand with his own, his thumb stroking her wrist where a pulse beat a frantic, matching rhythm.
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