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Dharma Jones, Angel Windell Pic(s)
The amber glow of twilight spilled through the window, catching the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, suspended desires. Her gaze, heavy-lidded and intent, traced the delicate curve of a collarbone, following the path down to where a pulse beat a frantic rhythm just beneath soft, fragrant skin. A single finger, tentative at first, brushed agat the small of a back, feeling the subtle arch and the shiver that rippled outwards in its wake. The scent of jasmine and warm skin filled the space between them, a heady perfume that made the very air feel thick and sweet. A soft sigh escaped parted lips, a sound that was both surrender and invitation, swallowed by the quiet of the room. Then came the press of a mouth, not demanding but seeking, a slow, deep exploration that tasted of wine and whispered secrets. Fingers tangled in silken hair, pulling gently, a silent plea for more, for less space, for the dissolution of all boundaries. Hips began to move in a slow, ancient rhythm, a wordless conversation of pressure and release, of friction building into a low, humming warmth. In that suspended moment, two separate beings blurred into one singular, trembling entity, cresting on a wave of shared, breathless pleasure.
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