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Violet Starr, Kendra Spade Pic(s)
The worn leather cover of the journal fell open with a soft sigh, releasing the faint, intoxicating scent of her perfume that still clung to the pages. My fingertips traced the elegant, looping script, each word a ghost of a touch that made my skin prickle with remembered heat. She had written of stolen afternoons, of sunlight filtering through dusty windows to gild our naked limbs tangled in a stranger’s sheets. The ink described the secret weight of my breast in her palm, the frantic pulse at the base of her throat that I would quiet with my lips. I could almost taste the salt on her skin again, feel the desperate clutch of her fingers in my hair as she arched agat me, a silent plea for more. Her words painted the hushed, breathless world we built behind closed doors, where time stopped and only our muffled gasps existed. Reading her confession of how my name became a prayer on her tongue in those final, shuddering moments sent a fresh, aching throb through my core. The diary was a map of our shared hunger, a detailed chronicle of every shudder and sigh we believed was ours alone. Now, laid bare on the page, our most intimate communion felt both terrifyingly exposed and eternally, beautifully preserved.
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