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Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders like a river of midnight silk, catching the dim lamplight as she knelt before him with an air of deliberate grace. The sheer black stockings traced the curves of her legs, a whisper of texture against skin that seemed to glow with its own inner heat. She looked up at him through lowered lashes, her gaze a slow burn of unspoken longing that made the air between them thicken with anticipation. Her fingers found the waistband of his trousers with a featherlight touch, tracing the line of fabric as if memorizing the shape of what lay beneath, her breath a warm promise against his thigh. The faint scent of her perfume—jasmine and something darker, muskier—wrapped around him like a velvet haze, blurring the edges of thought and restraint. As she leaned closer, the soft weight of her breasts pressed against his leg, a heavy, yielding pressure that sent a tremor of pure desire through his core. Her hand moved with unhurried confidence, palm sliding over the taut fabric, exploring the ridge of his arousal with a reverence that bordered on worship. A low hum of pleasure escaped her lips, vibrating through the silk of his boxers, and the sound was a liquid heat that pooled low in his belly. She parted her lips slowly, a glistening invitation, and the anticipation of her mouth’s touch was a sharper ache than any caress could deliver. When she finally took him in, her tongue swirling with practiced tenderness, the world dissolved into a single, pulsing point of connection—raw, hungry, and utterly hers.
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