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Jelena Jensen, Sara Stone Pic(s)
The first touch was not of skin, but of a gaze, a slow, deliberate meeting of eyes across the dimly lit room that stripped away all pretense and spoke a language of pure, unadulterated want. She moved with a liquid grace, the silk of her dress whispering secrets agat her thighs as she closed the distance, her scent—a blend of night-blooming jasmine and warm skin—filling the air between them. Her fingers, cool and sure, traced the line of a jaw, a touch so feather-light it was almost a memory, yet it sent a shiver straight to the core. Then came the press of lips, not tentative but knowing, a soft, searching exploration that tasted of red wine and a shared, breathless anticipation. A low murmur, a vibration felt more than heard, passed from her throat as a hand slid to the small of a back, pulling their bodies into a seamless alignment where hip met hip and heartbeats began to syncopate. The world narrowed to the heat of that contact, to the slide of fabric being pushed from a shoulder, baring skin to the hungry caress of a mouth that knew exactly where to linger. Fingertips discovered the delicate ridge of a spine, tracing each vertebra down to the waist, mapping a territory that trembled under their passage. Every sigh was a confession, every shift of weight a new demand, building a rhythm as ancient as the moon outside the window. In that suspended moment, there was only the exquisite friction of two bodies moving as one, a silent, urgent conversation spoken in the dialects of touch and surrender.
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