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The second time their bodies met, the air itself seemed to thicken with the scent of warm skin and shared anticipation. His hands, which had been tentative before, now charted the familiar landscape of her spine with a possessive certainty that drew a soft, shuddering sigh from her lips. She arched into his touch, her own fingers tangling in the dark silk of his hair to pull him closer, until the taste of him was the only thing on her tongue. The low light gilded the fine sheen of perspiration forming in the hollow of his throat, a place she now knew with her mouth as well as her eyes. Every whispered word between them was a hushed secret, a promise exchanged in the breathless space between frantic heartbeats. The slide of cotton as it pooled on the floor was a prelude to the more intimate friction of heated flesh meeting in the dim quiet of the room. He traced the delicate curve of her hip, his thumb stroking a slow, maddening rhythm that made her nerves sing with raw need. This was no longer discovery, but a deep, aching affirmation, a symphony composed of hitched breaths and the gentle, yielding pressure of their joining. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the language of touch, a silent, profound dialogue written upon their intertwined forms.
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