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Natasha Nice, Mark Zane Pic(s)
The sudden creak of the door announced an unexpected presence, and the air shifted with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and warm skin. He stood silhouetted agat the dim hallway light, his form a promise of shadows and solid muscle, his gaze a tangible heat that stripped away the thin barrier of her robe. Her breath caught as he moved into the room, each step a deliberate, silent vow that made the space between them hum with unspoken intent. His fingers, when they finally brushed agat her jaw, were calloused and electric, tracing a path of fire down the column of her throat. A low murmur escaped his lips, a vibration she felt deep in her bones as he leaned in, his warmth enveloping her like a second skin. The world narrowed to the slide of silk as her garment pooled at her feet, leaving her bare and trembling before his appreciative stare. His mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of her neck, a searing brand that promised both conquest and worship in the same devastating kiss. Every nerve ending sang as his hands explored the landscape of her body, mapping the curve of her hip, the soft plane of her stomach, with a reverence that felt like a new language. In that suspended moment, the only reality was the shared heat of their skin and the intoxicating slide towards a delicious, mutual surrender.
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