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Spencer Bradley, Lucas Frost Pic(s)
The door clicked shut with a finality that echoed in the sudden quiet of the hallway, leaving them enclosed in the dim, intimate glow of the nightlight. Her back pressed agat the cool wood, her breath catching as his palm settled flat beside her head, his body a wall of warmth that chased away the evening’s chill. The faint, clean scent of his soap mingled with the lingering sweetness of her perfume, creating an intoxicating cloud around them. His gaze was heavy, a tangible weight that traveled from her slightly parted lips down the vulnerable column of her throat. When his thumb brushed her cheekbone, the touch was electric, a slow, deliberate stroke that sent a shiver cascading down her spine. She could feel the hard line of his thigh agat her own, a promise of solidity and strength that made her knees feel weak. He dipped his head, his lips finding not her mouth, but the delicate shell of her ear, his whisper a low rumble that vibrated deep within her core. Every nerve ending seemed to awaken, hyper-aware of the scant millimeters of fabric separating his heat from her skin. In that suspended moment, the world outside ceased to exist, reduced to the shared, accelerating rhythm of their hearts pounding in the silent, shadowed space.
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