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Payton Leigh, Prinzzess Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick and sweet, heavy with the scent of our mingled sweat and the distant, cloying perfume of a forgotten bouquet. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path down the curve of my spine, a silent map of ownership that left a trail of fire in its wake. Every nerve ending sang a desperate, raw anthem as his mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of my throat, his teeth a gentle, promising threat agat my skin. The world had shrunk to this single space, to the rough texture of the sheets beneath us and the low, guttural sound that escaped his lips when my nails dug into the hard muscles of his back. I arched agat him, a wordless plea answered by the possessive weight of his body pressing me deeper into the mattress, erasing all thought. The only light came from the neon sign across the street, casting our entangled forms in a lurid, shifting glow of crimson and shadow. Each movement was a language of its own, a primal dialogue of yielding and conquest that built to an unbearable tension. A shuddering breath caught in my chest as his hand slid lower, cupping me with an intimacy that felt both profane and sacred, a final surrender to the hunger we had stoked for hours. In that suspended moment before the storm broke, there was nothing but the exquisite agony of anticipation and the certain knowledge that we would both be irrevocably changed.
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