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Marie McCray, Goldie Glock Pic(s)
The floorboards held their breath beneath my bare feet, a silent conspiracy agat the sleeping house as I crept toward the sliver of golden light beneath her door. The air itself was different here, thick with the scent of jasmine and night-blooming flowers from her perfume, a intoxicating trail that pulled me closer. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm agat my ribs, a wild drumbeat syncopated with the shallow catch of my own breath. Through the narrow opening, I saw her, a study in repose, the silk of her chemise clinging to the generous curve of her hip as she reclined on the chaise lounge. One strap had slipped down her arm, revealing the smooth, sun-kissed slope of her shoulder, a landscape of soft shadows and warm skin. Her fingers, tipped in dark polish, traced idle, hypnotic circles on her own thigh, a slow, self-soothing motion that held me utterly captive. The lamplight caressed the column of her throat, glinting in the dark strands of hair spilled across the cushion, and I could almost feel the phantom heat radiating from her body. Every sense was heightened, every whisper of fabric from my own movement sounding like a thunderclap in the charged silence. This was a forbidden threshold, a secret world of velvet and warmth where I was an unseen witness to her private, unguarded grace.
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