Puretaboo
Keira Croft, Jessy Jones Pic(s)
The first touch of his fingers agat her skin felt like the beginning of a legend, a slow, deliberate tracing of her collarbone that sent shivers cascading down her spine. His breath, warm and laced with the scent of aged wine and night air, ghosted across her neck, a silent promise of the ancient knowledge held within him. She arched into his palm as it settled agat the small of her back, a gesture of possession that felt less like a claim and more like a homecoming. The fine silk of her dress whispered agat the floor as he guided her down, the world narrowing to the dark, star-filled pools of his eyes. Every press of his lips was a lesson in eternity, a slow, burning brand that seared away the memory of any other man. His voice, a low rumble felt more than heard, wove a tapestry of forgotten cities and endless nights agat her throat. The cool night breeze from the open window danced across their heated flesh, a fleeting contrast to the profound warmth building between their entangled limbs. With each deliberate, languid movement, he was not just loving her, but etching the very essence of this moment into the fabric of time itself. She knew, with a certainty that eclipsed thought, that this joining would echo far beyond the dying embers in the hearth, a perfect, captured tant of rapture that would never, could never, fade.
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