Addicted2Girls
Lyla Storm, Nicole Aniston Pic(s)
The low light of the room seemed to cling to your silhouette as you moved, a slow, deliberate dance that pulled the very air from my lungs. My breath hitched, a silent captive to the promise in your eyes, dark pools of intention that held me more firmly than any touch. The scent of your skin, warm and faintly spiced, wove through the space between us, an intoxicating perfume that beckoned me closer. I watched the deliberate arc of your hand as it rose, fingers tracing a phantom path through the dimness that my body yearned to make real. The whisper of fabric shifting agat your form was a hushed secret, a sound meant only for me in the deepening quiet. Every subtle shift of your weight was a question, and my entire being thrummed with the single, desperate answer. The space separating us felt charged, a tangible field of anticipation that crackled with unspoken desire. You stepped forward, and the world narrowed to the heat radiating from you, a sun I ached to orbit. In that suspended moment, before contact, the anticipation was its own exquisite form of pleasure, a sharp, sweet ache blooming deep within.
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