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Brea Bennett, Fayth DeLuca Pic(s)
The first touch was not of skin but of sight, a slow, deliberate tracing of curves by hungry eyes in the dim light. A breath hitched, not from fear but from the sheer anticipation of a fantasy about to be made tangible. Fingertips, tentative as whispers, finally bridged the gap, grazing a collarbone and sending a visible shiver through the stillness of the room. The scent of jasmine and warm skin bloomed in the air, an intoxicating perfume that promised intimacy. A soft sigh escaped as a palm flattened agat the small of a back, pulling their bodies into a gentle, aligning pressure. Lips found the delicate hollow of a throat, tasting salt and the sweet vulnerability of surrender. Every movement was a silent question answered by a yielding arch, a shared rhythm beginning to pulse where their forms met. The world narrowed to the slide of silk, the heat of exhaled breaths, and the profound language spoken by trembling hands. In that hushed space, two separate beings began to blur, dissolving into a single, radiant point of shared, breathless pleasure.
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