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Brenna Sparks, Laly Vallade Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick with the scent of her perfume, a daring mix of night-blooming jasmine and warm skin. Her fingers, tracing a slow, deliberate path along the ide of my thigh, felt like the first drops of a summer rain after a long drought. I watched the pulse flutter at the base of her throat, a tiny, frantic bird trapped by velvet skin, and my own heart hammered in answer. She leaned in, her breath a hot whisper agat my ear, and the world outside the dim lamplight ceased to exist. The soft groan that escaped my lips was swallowed by the press of her mouth, a kiss that was not gentle but claiming, a languid exploration of heat and hunger. My hands found the curve of her hips, pulling her closer until I could feel the solid weight of her, a perfect anchor in the rising tide of sensation. The silk of her blouse whispered secrets as my palms slid up her back, each vertebra a pearl beneath my touch. A shudder ran through her as my teeth grazed the sensitive cord of her neck, a silent language of desire that needed no translation. In that suspended moment, there was only the shared rhythm of our breathing, the electric slide of skin on skin, and the profound, aching rightness of our bodies finding their home.
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