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Syren De Mer, Ricky Spanish, Alex Jett Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the bedroom window, casting long, warm shadows across the rumpled sheets where she sat beside him. Her fingers, cool and gentle, traced the fevered line of his brow, a silent promise of comfort in their slow, deliberate movement. He could smell the faint, clean scent of her perfume, a simple blend of soap and jasmine that cut through the stuffy air of sickness. A damp cloth, pressed softly to his forehead, brought a shiver of relief that rippled down his tense spine. Her voice was a low murmur, a soothing rhythm of words that asked for nothing but his ease, each syllable a balm to his restless spirit. The weight of her hip agat his leg was a solid, reassuring presence, an anchor in the disorienting haze of his flu. She leaned closer, her breath a warm caress near his ear as she adjusted the pillow, her blouse brushing his arm with a whisper of soft cotton. In that quiet, intimate space, the line between maternal comfort and something deeper, more primal, began to blur into a hazy, tantalizing possibility. A new kind of heat, distinct from the fever, started to bloom low in his belly, stirred by her unwavering, tender attention.
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