Women Seeking Women 01

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Avy Scott, Sara Stone Pic(s)

The invitation was in the lingering glance, a silent question held in the depths of dark eyes that seemed to see past every carefully constructed wall. Her fingers, when they finally bridged the small, electric space between them, traced a path up a bare arm with the lightest pressure, a whisper of skin agat skin that sent a shiver cascading down the spine. The scent of her was intoxicating, a subtle blend of night-blooming jasmine and clean, warm woman, and it drew me in like a tide. Our foreheads touched first, a gentle meeting that felt more intimate than any kiss, breathing the same air in a shared, suspended moment. Then her lips found mine, not with force, but with a slow, exploring softness that tasted of possibility and sweet, red wine. A low hum of pleasure escaped her throat, vibrating agat my mouth as her hands slid into my hair, cradling my head with a possessiveness that felt like sanctuary. I could feel the frantic beat of her heart beneath my palm as I dared to rest it on the soft silk covering her chest, a wild rhythm that echoed my own. The world outside the dim room ceased to exist, reduced to the slide of fabric, the heat of a sigh agat a neck, the profound language of touch. In that hushed convergence, there was only the exquisite discovery of a landscape both familiar and thrillingly new, mapped not by sight but by feeling.