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Prinzzess, Elsa Jean Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the mingled scents of sugar cookies and the clean, cold fragrance of winter clinging to our discarded uniforms. A pile of crimson and gold fabric lay in a soft heap near the fireplace, its warmth casting dancing shadows across our bare limbs. Her fingertips, tracing a path from my shoulder blade down the curve of my spine, were like sparks agat my cool skin. I could hear the faint, melodic jingle from outside, a distant holiday echo that only deepened our intimate seclusion. Turning to face her, I found her lips parted in a whisper, tasting of hot chocolate and a hint of peppermint as they met mine. The world outside, with its frosty celebrations, faded into ignificance agat the heat building between our tangled bodies. Every sigh, every soft gasp, was a secret shared only with the flickering firelight and the plush rug beneath us. The gentle pressure of her thigh between my own was a slow, deliberate rhythm that promised a private victory far sweeter than any trophy. In that cocoon of warmth and whispered confidences, we discovered a new kind of routine, a silent, fluid language of touch that left us breathless and utterly awake in the heart of the silent night.
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