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Keira Croft, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the unspoken promise of a first encounter. His gaze was a tangible weight, a slow, deliberate journey from the hesitant curve of a smile down to the nervous flutter of a pulse at the base of a throat. The low light caught the faint sheen of moisture on a glass, a detail magnified in the heavy silence between their shallow breaths. A scent, something clean like soap and subtly spiced, wove through the space, an invisible thread pulling them closer. The brush of a cotton sleeve agat bare forearm sent a jolt, a spark of pure sensation that was neither invited nor denied. Fingers, resting on the table, twitched with a life of their own, aching to bridge the infinitesimal distance that felt like a canyon. The world beyond the window blurred into ignificance, the only reality being the magnetic pull humming in the scant inches between their bodies. Every sound was amplified—the soft exhalation, the rustle of fabric as a posture shifted, the almost silent catch in a breath. It was a portrait of exquisite tension, a silent conversation of glances and proximity screaming with potential.
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