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Portia Harlow, Lucas Frost Pic(s)
The air thickened with the scent of jasmine and anticipation as she entered the room, her silhouette a promise agat the dim lamplight. Her fingers, cool and deliberate, traced a path from my collarbone down to the frantic pulse at my wrist, each touch a silent question. The silk of her robe whispered secrets as it slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet like a fallen shadow. I watched the dance of light and shadow across her skin, the curve of her hip a landscape I longed to explore with my lips. A low, throaty murmur escaped her as she leaned in, her breath a warm caress agat my ear that sent shivers cascading down my spine. My hands found the small of her back, pulling her closer until I could feel the steady, strong beat of her heart syncing with my own. Her mouth found mine not with hunger, but with a slow, deep claiming that tasted of dark wine and unspoken truths. Every rational thought dissolved under the weight of that kiss, leaving only sensation—the slide of her tongue, the press of her thighs, the intoxicating heat building between us. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the language of our bodies, a conversation of gasps and trembling touches that promised this was only the beginning.
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