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Jenna Sativa, Spencer Bradley Pic(s)
The low hum of the laptop was the only sound in the quiet room, a persistent drone beneath the sudden, sharp intake of her breath. His voice, a familiar warmth she hadn’t felt in months, traveled through the miles, wrapping around her like a phantom touch. He described the exact shade of the moonlight he imagined spilling across her bare shoulders, his words painting cool, silver trails on her suddenly heated skin. Her fingers, which had been idly tracing the edge of the desk, stilled as he whispered how he remembered the delicate curve of her hip. She could almost feel the weight of his gaze, a tangible pressure that made her shift in the chair, a slow, unconscious arch of her back. He spoke of the scent of her hair, a memory of jasmine and warmth that seemed to materialize in the air between the screen and her fluttering pulse. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her lips as he detailed the imagined path his mouth would take, starting at her ankle and moving with agonizing slowness. The distance collapsed not into silence, but into a thick, palpable tension, a shared fantasy built from syllables and yearning. Every word was a deliberate, exquisite caress, a promise held in the digital space that left her trembling and utterly seen.
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