21Sextury
Tiffany Doll, John Price Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun cast long, honeyed shadows across the parquet floor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the silent, expectant air between them. Her experienced gaze, the color of aged cognac, held his with an unnerving intensity that promised both challenge and reward. A single, deliberate finger traced the elegant line of her own collarbone, a silent lesson in the art of anticipation. The scent of her perfume, a sophisticated blend of vanilla and something darker, like oud, wrapped around him as surely as an embrace. She moved closer, the whisper of silk agat skin a hushed prelude to the contact he craved. When her palm finally, slowly, came to rest agat his cheek, the warmth was a shock, a current of pure connection. Her thumb brushed his lower lip, a gesture of possession that made his breath catch in his throat. Leaning in, her lips hovered a mere breath from his ear, and the heat of her whisper promised a world of forbidden knowledge. This was not a simple seduction, but an initiation, a slow, deliberate unraveling of everything he thought he knew about desire.
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