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Shyla Jennings, Angela Sommers Pic(s)
The soft glow of the lamplight caught the curve of her smile as she leaned in, her scent a delicate mix of night-blooming jasmine and warm skin. Her fingers, tentative as a whisper, traced a path from my wrist to the sensitive hollow of my inner elbow, sending a cascade of shivers up my arm. I could feel the gentle pressure of her knee agat my thigh, a quiet question posed in the language of touch. Our eyes met, and in that deep, unspoken understanding, the last vestiges of distance between us simply melted away. Her lips were impossibly soft when they finally met mine, a slow, exploring kiss that tasted of shared secrets and red wine. A low, contented hum vibrated in her throat, a sound I felt more than heard as her hand slid to the small of my back, pulling me closer. The silk of her blouse rustled softly beneath my palms as I explored the graceful line of her spine, each vertebra a delicate pearl beneath the fabric. The world outside the window ceased to exist, replaced entirely by the warm universe of her breath on my neck and the steady, reassuring rhythm of her heart agat my chest. In that suspended moment, every nerve ending was alight, not with frantic desire, but with the profound, aching rightness of finding a mirror to my own soul.
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