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Jane Wilde, Gia Derza Pic(s)
The frantic rustle of pages was a distant echo compared to the soft, determined rhythm of our breathing, a shared cadence in the quiet, lamplit room. His finger, tracing a complex diagram on the open textbook, slowly drifted to the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, leaving a trail of electric awareness. The dense text and sprawling equations blurred into irrelevance as his focus shifted, his gaze a palpable weight that heated my cheeks. A single, deliberate touch, his thumb brushing my lower lip, sent a jolt straight to my core, melting the tension of hours spent studying into a liquid pool of anticipation. The scent of old paper and his clean, musky cologne mingled into an intoxicating perfume that made my head spin with a new, more urgent kind of knowledge. He leaned in, his whispered question about molecular structures transforming into a warm breath agat my neck, a promise of a different sort of examination. My own hands, once clutching a highlighter, now found the solid warmth of his shoulders, learning the topography of muscle beneath his soft cotton shirt. Every nerve ending felt hyper-aware, attuned to the slightest shift of his body agat mine on the worn sofa, a silent language of desire. In that suspended moment, the only test that mattered was the one of patience, as we teetered on the precipice of a far more compelling lesson.
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