Girls That Finish The Job
Girls That Finish The Job Pic(s)
The last rays of the sun bled gold through the window, catching the dust motes dancing in the heavy, warm air between us. His knuckles, brushing a stray strand of hair from my cheek, felt like a whisper against my flushed skin. I could feel the steady, solid rhythm of his heart where my palm rested against his chest, a frantic echo of my own. My question hung there, a soft, breathless plea that made his dark eyes deepen with a heat I could almost taste. His answer was a slow, deliberate smile that started a fire low in my belly, spreading through my veins like warm honey. He leaned in, his forehead gently touching mine, our shared breath becoming a single, unspoken promise. The world narrowed to this space, to the scent of his skin and the thrilling pressure of his hand settling on the small of my back. Every nerve ending awoke, humming with an anticipation so sharp it was almost a sweet, delicious pain. I felt myself melting into his strength, my own resolve softening into a yielding trust that left me trembling. In that suspended moment, nothing else existed but the profound, aching need to close that final, breathless inch.
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