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The air in the room was thick with the scent of old books and the faint, sweet perfume she always wore, a fragrance that clung to his senses long after she had departed. He watched the slow, deliberate arc of her hand as she reached for her glass, the pale skin of her wrist a stark, vulnerable contrast to the dark wood of the table. When her fingers brushed agat his, a jolt, sharp and electric, traveled up his arm, settling deep within his chest as a low, humming warmth. Her eyes, the color of dark honey in the low light, held his with an unspoken promise that made the formality of their surroundings dissolve into irrelevance. The single strap of her dress slipped from her shoulder, a silent invitation he ached to accept with his lips, to trace the delicate curve with his tongue. A soft sigh escaped her, barely audible over the ticking clock, yet it seemed to scream volumes into the intimate space between them. He could feel the heat radiating from her body, a magnetic pull that drew him closer, narrowing the world to just this table, this moment, this breath. The taste of wine on his tongue was forgotten, replaced by the overwhelming anticipation of the salt on her skin, the potential pressure of her thigh agat his. This was the true agenda, the only item of business that mattered, a negotiation conducted not with words but with lingering glances and the charged silence of mutual wanting.
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