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Jasmine Jae, Small Hands Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the dusty classroom window, illuminating the silent, empty desks in long, golden bars of light that seemed to hold the day’s fading heat. He moved with a deliberate, unhurried grace, his shadow stretching across the worn floorboards as he approached the single occupied chair near the back. The air, thick with the scent of old paper and chalk dust, grew charged with a new electricity, the faint, clean smell of his soap cutting through the academic stillness. Her breath hitched as his hand, warm and sure, came to rest on the curve of her shoulder, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle on her skin that sent a shiver cascading down her spine. She could feel the solid strength of him standing behind her, a silent presence that made the room feel both infinitely large and intimately small. His other hand joined the first, his fingers splaying across her collarbones, applying the gentlest pressure to tilt her head back until she was looking up at the ceiling, her throat exposed and pulse fluttering wildly. A low, appreciative murmur vibrated from his chest into her back, a sound that was felt more than heard, speaking of a deep, patient hunger. The rough texture of his trousers brushed agat the bare skin of her arm, a stark, thrilling contrast to the soft cotton of her blouse, and she felt a flush of heat bloom low in her belly. In that suspended moment, the only sounds were the frantic rhythm of her own heart and the soft, shared breath between them, promising a lesson far beyond the scope of any textbook.
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