Nurumassage
Christie Stevens, Jillian Janson, Codey Steele Pic(s)
A soft gasp escaped her lips, a sound like silk tearing in the quiet room, as the first true light of dawn painted her skin in hues of pearl and rose. She moved with an unconscious grace that was both innocent and profoundly knowing, each subtle shift of her hips a silent sonnet agat the rumpled sheets. His gaze, heavy with a sleep-thick desire, traced the delicate arch of her spine, a pale pathway leading to the gentle swell of her form. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of her—warm milk, honey, and the faint, clean perfume of her hair fanned across the pillow. When her fingers, cool and feather-light, brushed agat his chest, it was not a demand but a question, sending a tremor through his entire being. He watched, captivated, as a slow, secret smile curved her mouth, a promise held in the soft bow of her lips that spoke of shared, unspoken yearnings. The simple cotton of her chemise whispered agat her thighs as she drew closer, the fabric clinging to dampening skin, outlining a truth more eloquent than any spoken word. In that suspended moment, she was a vision of yielding softness and untamed spirit, a paradox that captivated him utterly. He was lost then, completely and willingly, his heart no longer his own but a prize she had claimed with nothing more than a look.
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