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Gianna Dior, Will Pounder Pic(s)
The first touch was a slow, deliberate claiming, a heat that seeped through skin to bone, branding a memory more permanent than any scar. His fingers traced the delicate architecture of her spine, a silent cartographer mapping the gentle valleys and rising pla of her body. A low sigh escaped her lips, not a sound of surrender but of profound recognition, as if her very cells were realigning to the frequency of his presence. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of their mingled breath and the faint, clean smell of sun-warmed skin. Every point of contact became a tiny sun, radiating waves of sensation that melted the boundaries of where she ended and he began. He moved agat her with a languid, primal rhythm, a tide pulling her deeper into the undertow of a feeling too vast to name. The world outside the dim room dissolved into an indistinct hum, the only reality the slick heat of their joining and the sharp, sweet catch in her throat. It was a moment stretched into eternity, a perfect, aching fullness that promised this was not a pleasure to be experienced and forgotten. This was a seismic shift in the soul, an indelible imprint that would haunt the quietest hours of all her future nights.
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