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Vanessa Vega, Robby Apples Pic(s)
The air in the penthouse was thick with the ghosts of broken promises and the sharp, expensive scent of her perfume. He watched her from the doorway, a silhouette agat the panoramic city lights, the black silk of her dress clinging to every remembered curve like a second skin. Her fingers, tipped in blood-red lacquer, traced the cold glass of the window as if mapping the skyline she once promised to conquer with him. A low, guttural sound escaped his lips, not of desire, but of a fury so deep it had become a physical ache in his jaw. She turned slowly, a predator recognizing the shift in the hunt, her dark eyes gleaming with a challenge that was both an invitation and a weapon. The space between them crackled, not with the warmth of old passion, but with the cold, electric charge of a final reckoning. He moved then, crossing the room with a deliberate, silent stride that made the fine hairs on her arms stand in primal anticipation. His hand, when it finally cupped the nape of her neck, was not gentle, but possessive, a claim staking itself over the very pulse that had once quickened for his lies. This was not a reunion; it was the beginning of an exquisite, long-planned ruin, where every touch would be a punishment and every sigh a confession forced from the ru of their trust.
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