Addicted2Girls
Richelle Ryan, Jojo Kiss Pic(s)
The scent of night-blooming jasmine clung to her skin as she pressed agat the cool marble pillar, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from the younger woman molded agat her back. Her fingers, tipped with crimson polish, traced a slow, deliberate path up a silk-clad thigh, feeling the tremor that answered her touch. A whisper, warm and husky, ghosted past the shell of an ear, promising things far more valuable than the diamonds glittering in the vault behind them. Every shift of their bodies was a silent language, a dance of stolen moments in the museum’s oppressive silence. The tension was a live wire strung taut between them, charged not with the fear of discovery but with the thrill of the forbidden. She could taste the salt on the other’s neck, a faint, tantalizing hint of their shared exertion, as her palm flattened possessively agat a taut stomach. The world outside, with its alarms and guards, dissolved into the electric space where their breath mingled. This was the real treasure, the exquisite friction of youth agat experience, of daring agat control. In the shadowy quiet, the only sound was the soft, ragged intake of air before a kiss sealed their complicity.
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