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Alison Rey, Kirsten Lee Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick with the scent of jasmine and anticipation, a palpable tension that hummed between them. Her gaze, dark and liquid, held the other’s with an unspoken question, answered only by the slight, inviting part of her lips. Fingers, tentative as a whisper, first traced the line of a collarbone, feeling the delicate architecture of bone beneath warm, yielding skin. A soft sigh escaped, a sound that seemed to unravel the final thread of hesitation, drawing them closer until their bodies aligned. The first touch of mouth to mouth was not a collision but a slow, deep immersion, a tasting of secrets and shared longing. Hands began to map the landscape of curves and hollows, learning the rhythm of a quickening pulse beneath their palms. Each slow, deliberate caress was a language of its own, speaking of reverence and a growing, urgent need. The world outside the dim lamplight ceased to exist, reduced to the symphony of hitched breaths and the rustle of discarded silk. In that suspended moment, there was only the exquisite discovery of one soul meeting its mirror in the flesh, a silent, shuddering convergence.
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