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Sovereign Syre, Vera King Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of aged paper and dried lavender, a ghost of a fragrance clinging to the velvet drapes drawn agat the afternoon. His fingers, tracing the curve of her spine through the thin silk of her chemise, felt the whisper of a forgotten language, each vertebra a silent syllable of a story waiting to be read. The only light spilled from a single oil lamp, its golden glow pooling in the hollow of her throat and gilding the fine hairs on her arms. She arched into his touch, a slow, deliberate undulation that made the old bed ropes groan a sympathetic rhythm, the sound a secret shared with the dust motes dancing in the air. His lips found the sensitive place just below her ear, and the warmth of his breath was a startling contrast to the cool linen sheets beneath them. A soft sigh escaped her, not a sound of this frantic century but something slower, more deeply felt, as his palm slid down to cradle the swell of her hip. In the dimness, the intricate pattern of the wallpaper seemed to shift and swirl, its faded roses blooming in the periphery of her vision with each beat of her heart. The weight of him was an anchor, holding her fast in this suspended moment where the only measure of time was the shared cadence of their breathing. This was a communion not of haste, but of lingering discovery, a deliberate unraveling of sensation that felt both profoundly new and achingly familiar.
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