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Alyx Star, Angel Youngs Pic(s)
The world narrowed to the soft gasp that escaped her lips as my fingers traced the delicate curve of her hip, a silent question answered by the yielding arch of her back. Moonlight spilled across the bed, painting our skin in shades of pearl and shadow, a private canvas for our exploration. I lowered my mouth to the hollow of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin and feeling the frantic pulse that beat in time with my own. Her hands, clever and sure, tangled in my hair, not guiding but pleading, a wordless language of desire that I understood perfectly. Every sigh, every shuddering breath became a verse in the poem we were writing with our bodies, a rhythm as ancient as the tide. My palm slid slowly up the plane of her stomach, feeling the muscles quiver in anticipation beneath my touch, a landscape of pure sensation. When my thumb finally brushed the peak of her breast, she cried out, a soft, broken sound that was swallowed by the warm darkness of the room. The air grew thick with the scent of us, a heady mixture of warm skin and the faint, floral trace of her perfume now mingled with sweat. In that suspended moment, as our limbs entwined and our breaths became one, there was nothing but the exquisite truth of her body speaking directly to mine.
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