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Georgia Jones, Candice Dare Pic(s)
The sudden plunge into absolute darkness was a shock that rippled through the room, silencing the low hum of modern life and leaving only the thick, velvet quiet of the night. His hand, which had moments before been resting idly on the arm of the sofa, now found the warm curve of her shoulder in the profound blackness, a connection that felt more intentional, more charged, without the distraction of sight. The air itself grew heavy, saturated with the scent of melted candle wax and the faint, intoxicating perfume that rose from the heat of her skin. Every small sound became amplified—the soft rustle of her dress as she shifted, the almost imperceptible catch in her breath when his fingers traced a path down her arm. He could feel the fine hairs on her skin rise to meet his touch, a silent, physiological testament to the current now flowing unchecked between them. The world had shrunk to this single point of contact, a universe contained within the space where his palm met the delicate arch of her spine. Her lips, when they found his in the enveloping gloom, were not soft but demanding, a spark of desperate heat in the cool, still air. A low murmur escaped her throat, a vibration he felt more than heard, as his hands learned the landscape of her body by memory and touch alone. In the absence of all light, their other senses bloomed into a symphony of feeling, each touch a brilliant flash illuminating the dark.
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