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Reagan Foxx, Percy Sires Pic(s)
The air in the dimly lit room was thick with the scent of stolen perfume and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Her fingers, cool and deliberate, traced the line of my jaw before sliding down to the base of my throat, a silent question posed agat my frantic pulse. I could feel the whisper-soft leather of her glove as her thumb pressed just enough to make me gasp, a sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of my ear, and her breath was a warm promise of secrets and ruin. The silk of her blouse rustled agat my bare arm, a sensation so intimate it eclipsed the danger humming between us. My own hands, trembling, found the small of her back, feeling the powerful muscles shift beneath the fine fabric as she moved closer. The world narrowed to the space where our bodies met, a forbidden territory mapped by touch and a shared, unspoken understanding of the transgression we were committing. Her mouth found mine not with gentleness, but with a claiming hunger that tasted of expensive wine and the thrilling certainty of a shared downfall. In that moment, the only law that mattered was the one written by the desperate pressure of her hips agat mine and the slow, deliberate unfastening of a single button.
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