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Ailee Anne, Berry McKockiner Pic(s)
The air between them hummed, thick with a tension that was no longer about disagreement but about the unbearable proximity of a truce. His knuckles, which had been white with frustration only moments before, now gently grazed the sensitive skin of her inner wrist, sending a shiver up her arm that prickled the fine hairs at her nape. She could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap mingling with the warm, musky aroma of his skin, an intoxicating combination that made her head feel light. Her breath hitched as his thumb began to trace slow, deliberate circles on her palm, a silent language that spoke of apology and a deep, simmering want. The world outside the window, with its distant city sounds, faded into an indistinct murmur, unimportant next to the roaring pulse she could feel in her own throat. He leaned in, his forehead gently coming to rest agat hers, their shared breath creating a warm, intimate space that belonged only to them. Her eyes fluttered closed as she felt the soft pressure of his lips agat her temple, a kiss so tender it felt like a promise whispered agat her skin. Every inch of her body became acutely aware of the heat radiating from his, a magnetic pull drawing her closer until their bodies were aligned, separated only by the thin fabric of their clothes. In that suspended moment, the only thing that mattered was the slow, deliberate exploration of this new, fragile peace, communicated not with words but with the language of touch.
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