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Kenzie Taylor, Isiah Maxwell Pic(s)
Her knowing hands began a slow, deliberate journey across the landscape of his back, each palm a warm, weighted promise of release. The air grew thick with the scent of sandalwood and her subtle, musky perfume, a fragrance that seemed to cling to the very heat rising from their skin. Her thumbs found the tight knots of tension coiled along his spine, pressing with a firm, patient pressure that made him gasp into the plush towel beneath his cheek. She worked not just with strength, but with an intuitive understanding of the body’s secret geography, tracing the delicate wings of his shoulder blades. A low, approving hum vibrated from her throat, a sound that resonated deep within his own chest, more intimate than any words. Her fingers fanned out, gliding over the small of his back with an oil-slicked caress that made every nerve ending sing. He felt the careful scrape of her nails, a whisper-light trail that left a path of electric sensation in its wake, a tease of something sharper beneath the soothing rhythm. The world narrowed to this dim room, to the sound of her steady breathing and the slick, sliding music of her touch on his skin. This was a ritual of unwinding, a masterful seduction built not on haste, but on the exquisite, unbearable slowness of each perfectly placed stroke.
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