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Lala Ivey, Rod Jackson Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to pulse with a low, magnetic thrum, thick with the scent of warm skin and whispered promises. His gaze was a physical touch, a slow, deliberate caress that traced the line of my jaw and sent a shiver cascading down my spine. Every nerve ending awoke, singing a silent, desperate hymn as his fingers finally made contact, a feather-light exploration along the curve of my shoulder. The world narrowed to the space between us, to the heat radiating from his body and the intoxicating rhythm of his breath mingling with mine. A low murmur, more vibration than word, rumbled from his chest, a primal sound that promised exquisite surrender and fierce possession. My own breath hitched, caught in the thrilling tension of the moment before the storm, as his hands slid lower, mapping the landscape of my back with an artist’s reverence. The soft groan that escaped my lips was an involuntary offering, a testament to the delicious friction building where our bodies pressed together. I arched into him, a silent plea for more, for the delicious pressure that would erase all thought and leave only raw, consuming sensation. In that suspended breath, I was ready to be utterly unraveled, to be remade by the sheer, unyielding force of his desire.
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