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Gia Derza, Becky Bandini Pic(s)
The afternoon sun slanted through the dusty bay window, illuminating a universe of dancing motes as her fingers, tentative as a first exploration, traced the delicate curve of my lower back just above the waistband of my jeans. A shiver, entirely separate from the warm air, traveled up my spine, and I leaned into the solid, reassuring presence of the kitchen island, its cool granite a stark contrast to the heat blooming under my skin. Her breath was a warm whisper agat the nape of my neck, a prelude to the soft pressure of her lips that followed, a kiss that felt like a secret being passed between us in the silent, empty house. The scent of her, clean laundry and something uniquely her own, filled my senses as her hands settled on my hips, turning me slowly to face her. My own hands found the soft cotton of her shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, pulling her closer until I could feel the steady, strong beat of her heart agat my chest. Our foreheads touched, and in that suspended moment, the world outside—the overgrown garden, the quiet street—ceased to exist, leaving only the shared space of our breath mingling in the still air. Her gaze was dark, intense, holding a question that my body answered by arching towards her, an invitation she accepted by capturing my mouth in a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of possibility. Every sound was magnified—the soft rustle of our clothing, the faint catch in my throat, the way her sigh melted into the quiet of the room. It was a discovery more profound than any architectural detail, a mapping of a territory built not of walls and floors, but of pulse points and whispered promises.
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