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Tiffany Watson, Febby Twigs Pic(s)
The world had dissolved into the scent of her skin, a heady mixture of warm vanilla and the faint, clean salt of exertion. My fingers traced the delicate cartography of her spine, each vertebra a small, perfect island under my touch, a landscape I was committed to memorizing by feel alone. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips as my palm flattened agat the small of her back, pressing her closer until not even a sliver of air remained between our bodies. The heat that radiated from her was a furnace, stoking a matching fire deep within my own core, a desperate, consuming need. I lowered my mouth to the sensitive curve of her neck, not with haste, but with a slow, deliberate reverence, feeling the frantic pulse there beat in time with my own heart. Her hands tangled in my hair, not pulling, but holding, anchoring me to this moment, to the taste of her, to the shared rhythm of our breathing. Every whisper of skin agat skin was a silent vow, a promise whispered not with words but with the language of touch, a lexicon only we understood. The room was dark, but her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with wanting, were all the light I would ever need, reflecting my own obsessive devotion back at me. In that suspended silence, our bodies spoke the only truth that mattered, a complete and total surrender to the exquisite tyranny of this connection.
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