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Riley Nixon, Giselle Palmer Pic(s)
The supple arch of her spine curved like a bowstring pulled taut, each vertebra a distinct pearl agat the warm, wooden floor. A slow, deliberate inhalation swelled her ribcage, the air tasting of salt and the faint, sweet musk of her own exertion. Her limbs, sleek with a fine sheen of perspiration, extended with a liquid grace that spoke of profound focus and control. Fingers, splayed wide, pressed firmly into the mat as she deepened the pose, a tremor of delicious tension whispering through the sinews of her inner thighs. The thin fabric of her attire clung to the landscape of her form, outlining the powerful sweep of a shoulder blade as it shifted beneath smooth skin. A single bead of sweat traced a languid path from her temple, following the elegant line of her jaw before disappearing into the hollow of her throat. Her eyes were closed, lashes dark agat her cheeks, the only sound the soft rush of her breath escaping parted lips. Every muscle was both taut and yielding, a study in contrasts, holding a silent, potent energy that hummed just beneath the surface. In this suspended moment of extreme extension, her entire being was a testament to the exquisite threshold where effort melts into surrender.
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