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Ryan Keely, Aidra Fox Pic(s)
The afternoon sun slanted through the dusty bay window, illuminating the slow dance of motes in the air as her fingers traced a path up the small of my back, a whisper of contact beneath my thin cotton shirt. We stood in the hollow silence of the empty master bedroom, the scent of old wood and potential hanging heavy around us, but all I could perceive was the heat of her body close to mine. Her breath was warm agat my neck, a soft exhalation that made my skin prickle with anticipation as she turned me gently to face her. Her eyes, dark and knowing, held mine captive while her thumb brushed my lower lip, a question and an answer all in one deliberate stroke. The world outside, with its mundane concerns of mortgages and square footage, melted into irrelevance as she leaned in, her mouth finding mine in a kiss that tasted of mint and shared secrets. My hands found their way into her hair, tangling in the soft strands as the kiss deepened, a slow, exploring pressure that spoke of countless afternoons yet to come. The hard floorboards beneath our feet were forgotten, replaced by the soft yielding of our bodies pressed together in that pool of golden light. A low, contented sound hummed in her throat, vibrating agat my chest, a private melody that promised this space would soon be filled with our life. In that suspended moment, the house ceased to be a structure of plaster and beam, transforming tead into a sanctuary built entirely from the architecture of our desire.
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