Puretaboo
Whitney Wright, Reagan Foxx, Ana Foxxx Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick and heavy, a palpable presence that seemed to cling to her skin with every shallow breath she drew. His gaze was a physical weight, a slow, deliberate caress that started at the hollow of her throat and traveled downward with agonizing leisure, mapping the territory of her body before his hands ever dared to touch. She felt the fine silk of her slip become a prison, each thread a whisper agat her hypersensitive flesh, a maddening barrier that amplified rather than concealed. A single finger, calloused and warm, traced the delicate ridge of her collarbone, and a violent shiver, entirely unbidden, racked her frame. The scent of him, clean soap and something darker, more primal, filled her lungs, an intoxicating poison that made her head spin. She hated the way her own pulse quickened in response, a traitorous drumbeat thrumming at her wrists and throat, betraying the cold stillness she fought to maintain. His lips, when they finally brushed the shell of her ear, were devastatingly soft, a stark contrast to the low, commanding murmur that followed, a vibration that seeped straight into her bones. Every rational thought, every sharp-edged protest she had meticulously prepared, dissolved into a warm, liquid helplessness that pooled low in her belly. This complete and utter surrender, this annihilation of her own formidable will by a pleasure so profound it felt like punishment, was the deepest, most secret violation she could possibly endure.
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