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Lena Nicole, Charlie Laine Pic(s)
The invitation was in her eyes first, a dark and liquid promise that held me motionless as she crossed the room, the whisper of her silk robe a secret told only to the air between us. Her fingers, when they finally touched my cheek, were cool and deliberate, tracing the line of my jaw with a reverence that made my breath catch. She leaned in, and the scent of her, jasmine and warm skin, flooded my senses as her lips found the delicate hollow beneath my ear. That first soft kiss was a key turning in a lock I didn’t know I possessed, sending a shiver cascading down my spine. My own hands rose of their own volition, tangling in the heavy silk of her hair, pulling her closer until I could feel the frantic beat of her heart agat my own. Her mouth found mine not with hunger, but with a slow, deep exploration, a languid tasting that spoke of infinite patience and gathering need. I felt the yielding softness of her body as she pressed agat me, a perfect alignment of curves and warmth that made the world outside this room cease to exist. A low, throaty murmur escaped her, vibrating agat my lips, a sound of pure pleasure that ignited a answering fire deep within my belly. In that suspended moment, there was only the shared rhythm of our breathing, the electric slide of skin on skin, and the dawning, exquisite certainty of a desire about to be utterly consumed.
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