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April O’Neil, Karla Kush Pic(s)
The sharp trill of the pager sliced through the quiet hum of the night, a demanding summons that pulled him from the edge of sleep. His body, still warm and pliant from the sheets, moved with a practiced, fluid grace, the fabric of his shirt whispering agat his skin as he shrugged it on. The cool night air kissed his exposed arms, a stark, thrilling contrast to the lingering heat within. He imagined the call, not as a clinical duty, but as a secret rendezvous, a promise of something waiting in the dark. The leather of the driver’s seat sighed under his weight, conforming to the shape of his thighs as he gripped the steering wheel, its solid presence a anchor in the rushing silence. Streetlights strobed across his focused face, each flash highlighting the determined set of his jaw, the faint pulse at his throat. He could almost taste the anticipation, a metallic tang on his tongue, as the engine’s low thrum vibrated up through the floorboards, a physical sensation that resonated deep in his core. This was not just a journey through sleeping city streets, but a descent into a different kind of night, charged with a potent, unspoken urgency. Every nerve ending felt alive, strung tight with the electric possibility of what, or who, awaited his expert, trembling hands.
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