Girlfriendsfilms
Olive Glass, Nikole Nash Pic(s)
The air between them was thick with the ghosts of arguments and the sharp perfume of longing, a heady mixture that made each breath a conscious effort. His hands, which had moments before been clenched into fists of frustration, now traced the delicate architecture of her collarbone with a reverence that felt like an apology. A low, guttural sound escaped her lips, not quite a moan but a surrender to the raw current arcing between their bodies. She arched agat him, her nails scoring faint, possessive lines down the sweat-slicked plane of his back, a silent language of both punishment and need. The world outside their tangled embrace ceased to exist, reduced to the frantic drumming of two hearts beating in a dissonant, desperate rhythm. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, a unique fragrance of salt, warmth, and something uniquely, painfully her. Every touch was a contradiction, a bruising pressure that soothed an ache deeper than flesh, a caress that burned with the intensity of their shared, complicated history. Their mouths met again in a clash of teeth and tongue, a battle for dominance that melted into a mutual pact of desperate solace. In that suspended moment, the very pain they inflicted upon each other became the only balm, twisting their passion into a beautiful, necessary ruin.
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