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Veronica Snow, Shyla Jennings Pic(s)
The engine’s low, possessive growl was a vibration that traveled up through the leather seat, a resonant hum that settled deep in her bones. Her hands, resting lightly on the sculpted curve of the handlebars, felt the machine’s latent power as a tangible pulse, a promise of speed held in check by her slightest whim. Sunlight, thick and golden as honey, poured over the sleek fuel tank, gliding along the flawless crimson paint until it seemed to be a liquid skin. She leaned forward, a slow, deliberate arc of her spine, and the worn denim of her jeans tightened across her thighs with a soft, whispering friction. A stray lock of dark hair escaped from under her helmet, brushing agat her cheek with the faint, tickling caress of a lover’s breath. The scent of hot asphalt, warm oil, and the clean, sun-drenched leather of the saddle created an intoxicating perfume that filled her lungs with every deep, steadying inhalation. She could feel the heat radiating from the motor, a primal warmth that seeped through her clothes and kissed the skin beneath, a stark contrast to the cool breeze that played at the open collar of her jacket. Closing her eyes for a moment, she became acutely aware of the weight of the machine between her legs, a solid, demanding presence that was both an extension of her will and a force she commanded. Every sense was alight, tuned to the symphony of metal and motion, a perfect, suspended moment of anticipation before the world would dissolve into a glorious, roaring blur.
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