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Mia Split, Kristof Cale Pic(s)
The first touch was not of skin, but of sight, a slow, deliberate unveiling that began in the shadowed hollow of a collarbone. A single shaft of muted afternoon light, thick with dancing dust motes, fell across the curve of a shoulder, gilding the fine, downy hairs there into a constellation of gold. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of warm skin and the faint, clean perfume of rain-dampened earth wafting through an open window. His gaze was a tangible weight, a gentle pressure that traced the delicate line of a jaw before descending to where a pulse beat a frantic, silent rhythm at the base of a throat. A breath, held then released, stirred the air between them, a warm caress that preceded the agonizingly slow descent of a hand. Fingertips, calloused yet impossibly gentle, finally made contact, skating over a ribcage with the lightest friction, a sensation like silk whispering agat silk. Every nerve ending awoke, singing a sharp, electric anthem that made the very atmosphere hum with anticipation. The world beyond the window, with its distant sounds of life, faded into an indistinct murmur, irrelevant agat the roaring silence of this suspended moment. It was the beginning of a story written not in words, but in the language of shivers and shared heat, a prologue to a symphony of sensation.
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