Voodoo
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Her breath caught as his calloused hands found the warm curve of her hips, drawing her back against the solid heat of his chest. The air thickened with unspoken longing, each slow exhale from him stirring the fine hairs at the nape of her neck like a whispered promise. She could feel the deliberate patience in his touch, a reverence that made her skin bloom with anticipation beneath the thin fabric of her dress. When he guided her forward, palms sliding down the generous swell of her backside, a shiver of pure pleasure traveled from her spine to the very core of her being. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders as she bent at the waist, offering herself to his gaze, and the low sound he made was a language only their bodies understood. The weight of his desire pressed against her, not demanding but undeniable, a gravitational pull that made her knees tremble with a delicious ache. He traced the outline of her form with his fingertips, mapping every dip and rise as if memorizing a sacred landscape he intended to worship. Her own passion rose to meet his, a tide of heat that turned her soft moans into a rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart. In that suspended moment, with the world reduced to the friction of skin and the scent of her perfume, she felt a connection deeper than words, a raw and honest hunger. And when he finally drew her close, the promise of what was to come hung between them like a flame, ready to consume them both in a slow, exquisite burn.
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