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Sarah Shevon, Raven LeChance Pic(s)
The heavy velvet drapes were drawn agat the neon-lit city, creating a sanctuary of shadow and whispered sound. His fingers, tracing the delicate architecture of her spine, found the small of her back and pressed, a silent command that arched her agat him. The scent of their mingled sweat, sharp and primal, clung to the air like a confession. Her mouth found the pulse at the base of his throat, tasting salt and the frantic rhythm of his desire. Every inch of her skin felt alive, hyper-aware of the rough texture of the sheets beneath her and the smooth, hard heat of his body above. A low moan escaped her lips, not a sound of pleasure or pain, but something more complex, a raw acknowledgment of the exquisite tension coiling deep within. He moved with a deliberate, possessive slowness that was its own form of torment, each thrust a promise and a question. The world outside, with its rules and reasons, ceased to exist, replaced by the singular, consuming universe of touch and sensation. In that suspended moment, as pleasure crested into something closer to agony, they were not two people but a single, desperate flame burning in the dark.
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