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Prinzzess, Jelena Jensen Pic(s)
Her fingers traced a slow, deliberate path along the curve of my collarbone, a whisper of contact that sent a cascade of shivers down my spine. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of her perfume and the faint, clean smell of her skin. Her lips, when they finally met mine, were not demanding but inquisitive, a soft exploration that promised infinite patience. I felt the solid warmth of her body press agat me, a gentle weight that anchored me to the moment as her hand slid to the small of my back, pulling me closer. A low, approving murmur vibrated from her throat into mine, a sound that resonated deep within my core, awakening a long-dormant hunger. My own hands found the silken texture of her hair, tangling in the dark strands as I surrendered to the languid rhythm she established. Every brush of her thigh agat mine, every shift of her hips, was a silent language speaking of shared desire and imminent pleasure. The world beyond the dimly lit room dissolved into irrelevance, leaving only the symphony of our breathing and the electric sensation of her touch. In that suspended space, I was utterly captivated, every nerve ending alight with the thrilling anticipation of what was to come.
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