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Shyla Jennings, Jenna Sativa Pic(s)
Her fingers traced a slow, deliberate path along the curve of my spine, each touch a silent promise that sent shivers cascading through my entire being. The air grew thick with the scent of jasmine and warm skin, a heady perfume that made my head spin with delicious anticipation. Her lips found the sensitive hollow of my throat, and a soft, involuntary sigh escaped me as heat bloomed beneath her mouth. I could feel the frantic rhythm of her heart echoing my own as she pressed closer, our bodies aligning in a perfect, breathless fit. The world outside our embrace dissolved into a meaningless blur, leaving only the sensation of her hands exploring the landscape of my body with reverent curiosity. Every whisper agat my ear was a secret shared, a confession of desire that tightened the coil of pleasure deep within my core. The silken slide of her thigh agat mine was an exquisite friction, building a tension that was both agony and ecstasy. My name on her lips was a broken prayer, a sound that shattered my last vestiges of control and pulled me completely into the moment. In that suspended space between heartbeats, we were the only truth, a tangled, breathless symphony of shared need and overwhelming sensation.
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