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Cherie DeVille, Lacy Lennon Pic(s)
The low hum of the bar seemed to fade into a distant thrum as her gaze, dark and intent, found mine from across the room, a silent question hanging in the smoky air between us. She moved with a liquid grace that made the simple act of walking an invitation, her hips swaying in a rhythm that spoke of confidence and a hidden hunger. When her fingers, cool from her glass, finally brushed agat my wrist, a jolt of pure electricity shot up my arm, settling deep in the pit of my stomach. Her scent was a complex melody of night-blooming jasmine and clean, warm skin, an intoxicating perfume that drew me closer as she leaned in to whisper. The words themselves were lost, but the warmth of her breath agat my ear sent a cascade of shivers down my spine, awakening every nerve ending. I felt the soft, yielding pressure of her lips as they met mine, a tentative exploration that quickly bloomed into a fervent, searching kiss, tasting of wine and sweet, unspoken promises. My hands found the small of her back, pulling her flush agat me, feeling the strong, supple curve of her body molding perfectly to my own. In that breathless moment, the world narrowed to the slick heat of our mouths, the frantic beat of our hearts syncing, and the thrilling discovery of each subtle tremor and sigh. We were an island of shared warmth and rising desire, a perfect, private universe beginning where our bodies met and endlessly unfolding.
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