My Prejac Boyfriend
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Her breath caught as his gaze traced the curve of her neck, a slow, deliberate journey that kindled a familiar heat deep within her. She could feel the weight of his longing in the silence between them, a palpable tension that made the air shimmer with unspoken promises. With a languid grace, she let her fingers trail across his chest, mapping the steady thrum of his heart against her palm. The scent of his skin, warm and faintly musky, wrapped around her like a velvet shroud, pulling her closer to the edge of surrender. She lowered herself before him, a deliberate act of worship, and the raw anticipation in his eyes made her own desire bloom like a night flower. Her hands found the barrier of his restraint, and she worked it free with a reverence that spoke of countless nights of denied pleasure. The first touch of her lips against him was a whisper, a tease, a promise of the feast to come, and she felt his whole body shudder in response. She took him into her warmth, savoring the weight and taste of him, her movements a slow, rhythmic tide that drew out every ounce of his control. The heat of her breath, the slick glide of her tongue, the way his fingers tangled in her hair—it was a symphony of connection, a shared secret carved from pure longing. When he finally let go, spilling his release into her willing mouth, she swallowed his passion whole, and the look of awed gratitude in his eyes was the most exquisite prize of all.
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