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Alura Jenson, Lucas Frost Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the warmth of their entangled forms as his hands, broad and deliberate, mapped the impossibly soft, heavy curves of her chest. A low, appreciative murmur vibrated agat her skin as he cupped the full, pendulous weight, his thumbs tracing slow, hypnotic circles around the areolas until they tightened into stiff, eager peaks. She arched her back, a silent offering that pressed her generous flesh more firmly into his palms, a shudder of pure sensation coursing through her. The scent of their arousal mingled, a heady perfume of salt and musk, as he lowered his head to capture one taut nipple with his mouth, his tongue swirling a wet, hot path of worship. Her breath hitched, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close as he suckled deeply, drawing a gasp that was part pleasure, part relief from some deep, aching need. The sight was one of profound devotion, his strong frame bowed before the magnificent abundance of her body, lost in the tactile feast. Every sweep of his tongue, every gentle nip of his teeth sent ripples of fire straight to her core, coiling the tension within her tighter. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the slick heat of his mouth and the answering, throbbing pulse between her own thighs. This was a languid, deliberate communion, a celebration of mature, knowing desire that left them both breathless and trembling on the precipice.
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