21Sextury
Lana Roy, Kristof Cale Pic(s)
The golden hour light spilled through the half-open blinds, striping her bare skin with warmth as she stretched like a contented feline. A single bead of perspiration traced a slow, deliberate path from her temple, down the delicate curve of her neck, coming to rest in the hollow of her collarbone. Her fingers, trembling with a delicious anticipation, skimmed over the soft fabric of the chaise lounge before finding the smooth expanse of her own thigh. Every nerve ending seemed to awaken at her touch, a low hum building deep within her core as she arched her back into the cushions. The scent of her own arousal, musky and sweet, mingled with the faint perfume of jasmine from the garden outside, creating an intoxicating atmosphere. She allowed her eyes to flutter closed, giving herself over completely to the symphony of sensation—the whisper of cotton agat sensitive skin, the heavy, rhythmic pulse of her own heart. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips as her explorations grew bolder, her touch becoming a map of forgotten pleasures and urgent needs. The world outside, with its distant sounds of traffic and life, faded into an indistinct murmur, unimportant agat the roaring tide of feeling rising ide her. In this solitary sanctuary, time itself seemed to suspend, holding its breath as she journeyed toward a shimmering, inevitable release.
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