Girls That Finish The Job
Girls That Finish The Job Pic(s)
The fading sun cast long, trembling shadows across the room, gilding the dust motes that danced in the heavy, warm air. His gaze was a physical touch, a slow, searching heat that traveled from my temple to the curve of my jaw, leaving a phantom warmth in its wake. I felt my breath catch, a shallow, fragile thing as he lifted a hand, his fingers hovering just beside my cheek. The world narrowed to this single, suspended moment, the space between our bodies humming with unspoken confessions. When his thumb finally brushed my lower lip, the touch was so gentle it was almost a question, and my entire being leaned into the answer. A soft sigh escaped me, a sound of surrender and profound relief, as I let my forehead rest against his. In the quiet, I could feel the frantic rhythm of his heart echoing my own, a wild, syncopated drum against the stillness. The scent of his skin, clean and faintly of rain, filled my senses, weaving a spell of intoxicating safety and thrilling danger. Every fear, every guarded thought, began to melt away under the tender assault of his silent devotion. In that golden haze, I was utterly known, completely unraveled, and desperately, beautifully found.
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