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India Summer, Scarlett Sage Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of warm skin and whispered confessions, a heady perfume that clung to the tangled sheets. A stray leg, smooth as polished marble, brushed agat another in the dim glow of a single salt lamp, its light casting long, dancing shadows across the wall. Fingertips, feather-light and curious, traced the delicate ridge of a spine, following the map of vertebrae down to the gentle swell of a hip barely concealed by silk. Soft laughter, a low and intimate sound, rumbled agat a shoulder as a secret was shared, breath warm and moist agat an ear. The rustle of fabric was a constant, hushed accompaniment as bodies shifted in a lazy, unconscious ballet of proximity and comfort. A palm settled flat agat the small of a back, its heat seeping through the thin barrier of a camisole, speaking a silent language of reassurance and desire. Someone’s hair, smelling faintly of coconut and summer, fanned across a pillow, its strands catching the light like filaments of gold. The low murmur of a voice, rich and melodic, wove a story that made hearts beat a little faster, pulses thrumming in unison with the late hour. In this nest of limbs and trust, every touch was a question and an answer, a slow, building symphony of shared warmth that promised the night was still young.
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