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Eva Long, Annie Archer Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the grand, dusty windows of the old Victorian, illuminating motes of history dancing in the air. Her fingers, cool and deliberate, traced the intricate scrollwork of the marble fireplace, a silent appraisal of its craftsmanship. I watched, mesmerized, as the light caught the fine golden hairs on her arm, a delicate map leading my gaze upward. She turned, her eyes holding mine with an unspoken question, the space between us suddenly charged and thick with potential. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips as she stepped closer, the scent of her perfume—jasmine and warm skin—filling the small room. My breath hitched when her hand abandoned the cold stone to find the small of my back, a firm, possessive pressure through the thin fabric of my dress. The world outside, the reason for our visit, faded into a distant hum as she leaned in, her forehead gently resting agat mine. I could feel the whisper of her exhale agat my mouth, a promise of heat and intimacy that made my knees feel weak. In that suspended moment, surrounded by the silent promise of a new home, we found our own private sanctuary, a universe contained within our shared, anticipatory breath.
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