Zerotolerancefilms
Bailey Blue, Anthony Rosano Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick and still, carrying the faint scent of salt and warm skin. His knuckles, pale and prominent, traced a slow, deliberate path down the arch of her spine, mapping the delicate terrain of vertebrae beneath the surface. A soft sigh escaped her lips, not a sound of words but a yielding exhalation that stirred the fine hairs on his forearm. The only light came from a single candle, its flame casting long, dancing shadows that made their intertwined limbs seem like a single, shifting sculpture. He could feel the frantic rhythm of her heart agat his palm, a wild drumbeat answering the increasing pressure of his thigh between hers. Her fingers tangled in his hair, not pulling but holding, anchoring herself as a shudder of pure anticipation wracked her frame. The silk of her chemise whispered agat the rough linen of the sheets, a friction that promised its own eventual surrender. His mouth found the sensitive hollow of her throat, and the taste of her was like sunlight on stone, elemental and profound. In that suspended moment, every breath was a negotiation, every point of contact a silent, urgent question awaiting its answer.
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