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Lena Nicole, Stephanie Swift Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of her perfume, a delicate blend of jasmine and sandalwood that seemed to cling to the velvet couch. Her gaze, usually so analytical and measured, now held a soft, unfocused warmth as she listened, not just to the words being spoken, but to the subtle cadence of my breathing. I watched the way her slender fingers, absentmindedly tracing the spine of a leather-bound journal, stilled completely as our eyes met in a moment of profound silence. A faint blush crept up her neck, coloring the pale skin above the collar of her crisp white blouse, and I found myself leaning forward, drawn by an invisible thread of longing. The professional distance between us evaporated like mist, replaced by the electric charge of a shared, unspoken understanding. My heart hammered agat my ribs as I confessed a desire that had nothing to do with my stated reasons for being there, my voice a hushed whisper that seemed to amplify the quiet of the office. She didn’t retreat but tead mirrored my movement, her knee brushing agat mine, a touch so light it was almost imagined yet it sent a jolt straight through me. The world outside the window blurred into ignificance, the only reality being the slow, deliberate way her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound emerged. In that suspended breath, I knew the therapy was over, and something far more intimate, far more terrifyingly beautiful, had just begun.
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