Zerotolerancefilms
Cindy Crawford, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The whisper of silk sliding from her shoulders was the only sound in the room, a hushed prelude to the warmth of his palm settling agat the small of her back. Each deliberate stroke of his thumb traced the delicate ridge of her spine, a slow, claiming journey upwards that made her breath catch. She arched into his touch, a silent plea for more, her skin flushing with a heat that rivaled the low embers in the hearth. His lips found the sensitive hollow where her neck met her shoulder, not with haste, but with a lingering pressure that spoke of deep familiarity. A low murmur vibrated agat her flesh, a wordless sound that was more intimate than any name, weaving a spell that bound them in the moment. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing to erase the last sliver of space between their bodies. The scent of him—clean linen and something uniquely, essentially male—filled her senses, becoming the only identity that mattered. This was a language older than speech, a dialogue written in the flush of skin and the meeting of mouths. In this suspended space, they were simply two bodies discovering a shared rhythm, a perfect, breathless anonymity.
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