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Lisey Sweet, Will Pounder Pic(s)
The flickering candlelight traced golden rivers along the contours of her collarbone as she leaned forward, her voice a hushed tremor that seemed to vibrate through the very air between us. Her plea was not with words but with the language of her body, a subtle arch of her spine that pulled the thin fabric of her dress taut agat the gentle swell of her breasts. The scent of night-blooming jasmine clung to her skin, an intoxicating perfume that filled my senses with every shallow breath she took. I watched the pulse flutter at the base of her throat, a frantic, captive bird beating agat the delicate cage of her flesh, a silent testament to the vulnerability she offered so completely. My gaze drifted lower, following the shadowed valley that disappeared into her neckline, my own heartbeat quickening in response to the unspoken promise of warmth hidden there. The air grew thick, charged with a tension that was both a question and an answer, a magnetic pull drawing me into her orbit of quiet desperation and raw need. Her fingers, cool and trembling, found the back of my hand, their touch sending a jolt of lightning up my arm, a direct current to my core. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the space where our skin met, a point of contact that felt like both a supplication and a claim. Every fiber of my being yearned to answer that silent call, to map the landscape of her longing with my own hands and quiet the storm of her fears with the steady pressure of my mouth.
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