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Zoey Holloway, Angie Noir Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun, a molten gold coin sinking into the horizon, painted the dusty windshield in long, languid strokes, its warmth seeping through the glass to caress her bare arm resting on the open window frame. A current of wind, thick with the scent of sun-baked asphalt and distant rain, played through the dark tendrils of her hair, occasionally carrying the faint, intoxicating trace of jasmine from the woman in the driver’s seat. She watched the subtle shift of muscle in that tanned forearm as skilled fingers adjusted the grip on the worn leather steering wheel, a motion of unconscious grace that sent a quiet thrill humming through her own ve. The low, thrumming purr of the engine vibrated up through the floorboards, a steady rhythm that seemed to sync with the quickening pulse she could feel at her own throat. Her gaze drifted from the unspooling ribbon of highway to the delicate hollow just above the other’s collarbone, where a single bead of sweat traced a glistening path down skin that looked soft as worn velvet. The air between them grew thick, charged with unspoken words and the shared heat of the day, every slight sway of the car bringing their shoulders a whisper closer in the intimate confines of the cabin. She could almost taste the salt on the air, a prelude to the imagined flavor of that damp skin, her lips parting slightly with a breath that was more sigh than inhalation. The world outside blurred into an impressionistic smear of green fields and fading light, the entire universe narrowing to this singular, moving space filled with the sound of rushing wind and the quiet, steady rhythm of their breathing. In that suspended moment, the journey itself became the destination, a promise of something wild and sweet hovering just beyond the next curve in the road.
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