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Kirsten Price, Sammie Rhodes Pic(s)
The air hummed with a low, anticipatory energy, thick with the scent of jasmine and warm skin. Her gaze, dark and liquid, held mine from across the room, a silent question that bypassed words entirely. As she moved closer, the space between us vanished, replaced by the electric heat of her body barely grazing mine. Her fingers, when they finally traced the line of my jaw, were impossibly soft, a whisper of a touch that sent a shiver cascading down my spine. I leaned into the contact, my eyes fluttering closed as her thumb brushed my lower lip, a promise of gentleness and hunger. The first kiss was not a collision but a slow, deliberate merging, a tasting of secrets and shared longing that made my knees weaken. A low murmur escaped her throat, vibrating agat my mouth as her hands slid to the small of my back, pressing our bodies into a perfect, aching alignment. I could feel the frantic rhythm of her heart echoing my own, a syncopated drumbeat beneath layers of silk and yearning. In that suspended moment, there was only the profound language of touch, a conversation of sighs and yielding flesh that spoke of a connection deeper than any name.
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