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Deauxma, Bibette Blanche Pic(s)
Her breath hitched as a warm palm settled agat the small of her back, a gentle pressure that pulled their bodies into a seamless alignment. The scent of jasmine and warm skin filled the air, an intoxicating perfume that made her head spin with a sudden, dizzying need. She felt the soft brush of lips agat her throat, a whisper of a touch that sent shivers cascading down her spine like liquid electricity. Fingers, delicate yet sure, traced the line of her jaw before tilting her face upward to meet a gaze of smoldering intensity. The first kiss was not a question but a slow, deliberate answer, a deep exploration that tasted of shared secrets and unspoken promises. A low moan escaped her as a hand slid upward, cupping the weight of her breast through the thin fabric of her dress, a thumb brushing over a tightening peak. The world outside their embrace dissolved into a meaningless blur, the only reality the heat of the other’s skin and the frantic rhythm of two hearts beating as one. Every movement was a silent language, a choreography of desire where hips arched tinctively and hands learned the sacred geography of each other’s bodies. In that suspended moment, there was only the profound, aching rightness of their connection, a complete surrender to the consuming fire they had ignited.
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