Puretaboo
Isabella Nice, Calvin Hardy Pic(s)
The familiar weight of his hand settled upon the small of her back, a possessive heat that seeped through the thin silk of her dress, awakening a dormant tremor deep within her core. A low, appreciative hum rumbled from his chest, a vibration she felt more than heard as he drew her closer, the scent of his skin—clean linen and something darker, uniquely his—filling her senses completely. Her own breath hitched as his fingers traced a deliberate path upward, following the delicate ridge of her spine, each vertebra a tiny beacon under his knowing touch. She arched into the contact, a silent plea for more, her head tilting back to expose the vulnerable column of her throat to the warm, expectant air of the room. His lips found that offered pulse point, not with haste, but with a slow, savoring pressure that promised a thorough rediscovery of every secret her body held. The world beyond the locked door, the distant city sounds, all dissolved into the roaring silence of this reunion, a universe contained within the space between their bodies. A soft sigh escaped her as his mouth began a languid descent, his tongue painting a wet, blazing trail over her collarbone, each kiss a brand of returning ownership. The fabric of her dress whispered a protest as he gathered it in his fist, the cool air a sudden shock agat her heated skin before being replaced by the scorching palm of his hand. In that moment, there was only the exquisite pressure, the shared rhythm of their breathing, and the profound, aching rightness of being exactly where she was meant to be.
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