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Cherie DeVille, Gianna Dior Pic(s)
The air itself was thick and heavy, a palpable presence charged with the scent of heated skin and the faint, metallic whisper of desire. His fingers, calloused and sure, traced a slow, deliberate path down the curve of her spine, each vertebra a tiny mountain range surrendering to his touch. A low, guttural sound escaped her lips, not a word but a pure, unfiltered expression of need that vibrated agat his chest. The dim light from a single candle gilded the sheen of perspiration on their bodies, casting long, dancing shadows that merged and twisted upon the wall like a silent, frantic ballet. Her own hands were not idle, nails scraping lightly over the taut muscles of his shoulders, mapping the terrain of his strength with a possessive hunger. The world beyond the room had ceased to exist, its sounds and worries muffled by the roaring tide of blood in their ears. He lowered his mouth to the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, his tongue a brand of fire that made her arch agat him, a bowstring pulled to its absolute limit. Every sense was amplified, from the taste of salt on his skin to the feel of rough cotton sheets beneath her, a stark contrast to the slick, smooth heat where their bodies joined. This was a language older than speech, a primal dialogue of grasping hands, shuddering breaths, and the exquisite, unbearable tension of a pleasure so acute it bordered on pain.
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