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Allie Addison, Isiah Maxwell Pic(s)
The low hum of the television was a distant ghost, its flickering light casting long, dancing shadows across the plush carpet where they had finally succumbed. His fingers, previously tentative, now traced a deliberate path along the delicate ridge of her spine, a slow pilgrimage from the nape of her neck to the tempting curve just above her waistband. Each vertebra was a subtle peak under his touch, a silent cartography of desire that made her arch tinctively into his palm. The air, thick with the scent of rain-soaked night air drifting through a cracked window, mingled with the faint, sweet perfume of her skin and the musk of his cologne. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips as his other hand cupped the back of her head, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below her ear, sending shivers that cascaded down to her toes. The rough texture of his jeans was a stark, thrilling contrast agat the smooth bareness of her thigh where her shorts had ridden up, a friction that promised more. He lowered his mouth, not to her lips, but to the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat, his breath a hot, damp promise agat her skin before his tongue tasted the salt of her anticipation. In that suspended moment, the world outside—the empty street, the silent house, the responsibilities that waited—dissolved into an irrelevant haze, leaving only the tangible reality of his weight and the electric current humming between their bodies. This was no longer an accident or a mistake, but a deliberate, hungry convergence, each touch a word in a silent, urgent language they were only just beginning to speak.
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