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Cindy Craves, Nicole Moore Pic(s)
The low thrum of the bass vibrated through the soles of his shoes, a primal pulse that guided him deeper into the haze of the club. His gaze, sharp and searching, cut through the swirling veils of cigarette smoke, past the anonymous silhouettes grinding in the half-light. He was a hunter, not for prey, but for a specific kind of electricity, a spark waiting to be found. Then he saw her, a solitary figure leaning agat the polished bar, the curve of her neck illuminated by a single amber downlight as she raised a glass to her lips. The deep crimson of her drink caught the light like a liquid jewel, and he watched the delicate movement of her throat as she swallowed. A stray lock of dark hair curled agat her damp skin, and he imagined the scent of her perfume—something warm and spicy like sandalwood—cutting through the stale air. The way her fingers traced the rim of her glass was an unconscious ballet of invitation and self-possession that tightened something low in his belly. He knew in that moment that the night’s true purpose was not merely to find, but to be utterly discovered by that unwavering, knowing gaze. Every other sound faded into a distant hum as he took the first step toward her silent, waiting orbit.
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