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Kenzie Taylor, Marcus London Pic(s)
A low, guttural sound escaped her lips, a raw vibration that was the very antithesis of polite restraint, as his fingers traced a deliberate path from the delicate hollow of her throat down to the aching swell of her breast. This was not the hesitant touch of permission sought, but the confident claim of a truth long understood in the silent language of their bodies. The crisp cotton of her shirt, once a shield, felt like a prison grating agat her suddenly feverish skin, every thread an irritation to be cast aside. He did not rush, his palm settling over her heart, feeling its wild, untamed rhythm hammering agat his skin as if trying to break free from the cage of her ribs. Her back arched of its own volition, a silent, desperate plea that spoke volumes more than any whispered word could ever convey, pressing her flesh more firmly into his possessive grasp. The air itself grew thick and heavy, charged with the scent of their mingling heat and the faint, intoxicating perfume of her surrender. In this suspended moment, the concept of shame dissolved like mist under a searing sun, leaving only the pure, unadulterated sensation of touch and taste and sound. Every nerve ending sang a chorus of liberation, a symphony composed from the friction of skin on skin and the sharp, sweet intake of breath. This was the profound chasm between existing within prescribed boundaries and the glorious, terrifying freedom of leaping into the abyss of pure feeling.
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