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Juliana Jolene, Kendra Banx Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to shimmer with a new, shared heat as her gaze, dark and liquid, held mine from across the room, a silent question that bypassed words entirely. My breath hitched as she closed the distance, the scent of her skin—warm vanilla and salt—washing over me like a tangible promise. Her fingers, when they finally brushed agat my jaw, were impossibly soft, tracing the line down to my pulse point where my blood thrummed a frantic rhythm just for her. A low, approving hum escaped her lips before they found mine, not in a rush, but in a slow, deliberate exploration that tasted of midnight and desire. My hands slid up the silk of her back, feeling the powerful muscles shift and tense beneath my palms as she deepened the kiss, her tongue a slick, searching caress. She guided me backward until the cool wall met my shoulders, a stark contrast to the furnace of her body pressing flush agat mine, leaving no space for doubt. One of her legs slipped between my thighs, the pressure a sweet, istent friction agat the growing ache at my core, and I arched into her with a helpless gasp. Her mouth left mine to trail fire down my neck, her teeth grazing my collarbone before her lips closed over one sensitized peak through the thin fabric of my dress. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the slide of her skin on mine, the whispered endearments breathed into the hollow of my throat, and the profound, aching certainty of being utterly claimed.
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