Addicted2Girls
Ella Nova, Olive Glass Pic(s)
The room held a sacred hush, broken only by the soft rustle of cotton sliding from a shoulder. Her fingers, tracing a path down the other woman’s spine, were not clinical but reverent, learning the landscape of a long-held tension. A sigh escaped, warm agat the hollow of a throat, as the receiving body softened into the touch, a silent surrender. Eyes, dark and deep as still water, met another pair, and in that gaze passed an unspoken understanding that transcended mere truction. The space between them vanished as their foreheads touched, a bridge of skin and shared breath that charged the air. A palm cupped the gentle curve of a hip, its thumb making slow, deliberate circles on the sensitive skin just above the waistband. Lips followed the path fingers had blazed, tasting the salt and sweetness of a flushed décolletage, each kiss a quiet question and a profound answer. Hips began to move with a slow, tinctual rhythm, a dance of pressure and release that spoke of a deep, unlocking pleasure. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, a universe contained within the intertwining of limbs and the soft, urgent sounds of mutual discovery.
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