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Laney Grey, Stirling Cooper Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick and heavy, clinging to the skin like a second layer of silk. A low, guttural sound rumbled from the corner, a vibration felt more than heard, traveling through the floorboards and up through the soles of my feet. The man who stood there seemed to swell, his shadow on the wall elongating into a distorted, powerful shape that drank the lamplight. The scent of him changed, the faint aroma of old books and brandy giving way to something wilder, a musky, primal odor of sweat and earth. His knuckles cracked as he flexed his hands, the sound sharp and deliberate in the tense silence. I watched, mesmerized, as a bead of perspiration traced a path down the corded strength of his neck, disappearing into the dark, open collar of his shirt. His gaze, once distant, now pinned me with an intensity that was both terrifying and magnetic, stripping away all pretense and leaving only raw anticipation. Every breath I took was shallow, filling my lungs with his new, intoxicating presence. A slow, predatory smile stretched his lips, revealing a hunger that promised to devour the very space between us.
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