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Shyla Jennings, RayVeness Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick, each breath a conscious effort as her gaze inadvertently dropped and then snapped back up, a frantic dance of mortification. A flush, hot and undeniable, crept from her collarbones to her hairline, painting her skin with the truth of her embarrassment. Her fingers, which had been idly tracing the seam of her trousers, stilled completely, becoming cold and clumsy appendages. The space between them seemed to shrink and expand at once, charged with an unspoken tension that vibrated in the silence. She could hear the faint, rhythmic rustle of fabric, a sound that was suddenly deafening, mapping a territory she desperately tried to ignore. The curve of a hip, the long line of a thigh, every contour seemed outlined in a light that was both too harsh and irresistibly alluring. A single bead of sweat traced a slow, deliberate path down the nape of her neck, a tiny rebellion of her body agat her frozen composure. The scent of clean skin and something faintly musky filled her senses, an intimate perfume that made her head feel light. In that suspended moment, every particle of her being was acutely, painfully aware of the other’s presence, a collision of worlds both awkward and intensely, undeniably sensual.
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