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Freya Parker, Aften Opal Pic(s)
The room was a crucible of heat, the air thick with the scent of jasmine oil and the sharp, clean perfume of female arousal. Her fingers, tracing a slow, deliberate path from a tensed shoulder blade down the elegant curve of a spine, left a trail of goosebumps in their wake. A low, guttural sound escaped the other woman’s throat, a vibration felt more than heard, as a mouth found the frantic pulse beating at the base of a slender neck. The taste of salt on skin was an intoxicant, fueling a hunger that made hands tremble with the effort of their slow exploration. Fingertips brushed the sensitive underside of a breast, circling a nipple that hardened tantly into a pebbled peak agat a waiting palm. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the slick, hot pressure building between tangled thighs, a silent, desperate conversation. Hips arched tinctively, seeking more friction, more of the delicious pressure that promised a shattering release. Every sigh, every sharp intake of breath was a whispered secret, a map to deeper pleasures yet to be discovered. In the half-light, their bodies moved as one entity, a seamless dance of giving and taking that blurred the lines between where one ended and the other began.
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