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Magdalene St. Michaels, Heather Silk Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken with the scent of jasmine and warm skin, a silent testament to the anticipation humming between them. Her gaze, dark and liquid, traced the delicate curve of a collarbone before venturing lower, following the soft shadow between rising breasts. A single finger, tentative as a whisper, bridged the final distance, its pad stroking the impossibly smooth plane of a stomach, feeling the subtle tremor that answered its touch. A sigh escaped, not of words but of pure sensation, as a palm flattened agat the small of a back, drawing their bodies into a slow, deliberate alignment. The heat was a living entity, pulsing where thigh met thigh and silk-clad limbs began a gentle, searching entanglement. Lips found the frantic flutter of a pulse at the base of a throat, tasting salt and the sweet promise of surrender. Every movement was a question and its answer, a languid exploration of yielding flesh and whispered encouragements that were felt more than heard. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, this symphony of shared breath and the slick, hot slide of skin agat skin. In the quiet darkness, they discovered a language older than speech, written with arching spines and trembling fingertips.
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