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Lauren Phillips, Harley Haze Pic(s)
The third time their bodies met, the air itself seemed to thicken with the scent of their mingled sweat and the lingering sweetness of spilled wine. His hands, no longer tentative, mapped the delicate architecture of her spine with a possessive certainty that drew a shuddering sigh from her lips. She answered by arching agat him, her nails tracing a faint, burning path across the taut skin of his shoulders. The world had narrowed to the frantic rhythm of their hearts, a wild drumbeat syncopated by the soft, wet sounds of their joining. Every nerve ending felt exposed, raw and singing with an electricity that made the fine hairs on her arms stand alert. He whispered a name that was not hers into the hollow of her throat, a betrayal that only sharpened the illicit thrill coiling deep within her belly. Her own moan was swallowed by the crushing pressure of his mouth, a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation. In the dim light, their shadows twisted into a single, monstrous shape on the wall, a silent witness to the beautiful ruin they were creating. This was no gentle union, but a glorious collision, a fever dream from which neither wished to awaken.
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