Girls That Finish The Job
Girls That Finish The Job Pic(s)
The storm outside painted the windows in silver streaks, its low rumble a distant drum to the rhythm of our hearts. His breath hitched as my fingers traced the line of his jaw, a silent question answered by the slow, trusting surrender in his eyes. I leaned in, and the world narrowed to the space between us, filled only with the scent of rain and his skin. My lips found the delicate hollow of his throat, feeling the frantic pulse there quicken under my touch. A soft sigh escaped him, a sound sweeter than any melody, as my mouth began its tender, wandering exploration. I could taste the salt of his skin and feel the gradual unraveling of his composure in the tremble of his stomach beneath my palm. His hands tangled gently in my hair, not guiding but simply holding, a anchor in the rising tide of sensation. Every shift of my body, every whispered kiss, was a word in a language only we understood, building a profound and aching intimacy. The air grew thick with unspoken promises and the raw, beautiful vulnerability of complete giving. When he finally cried out, a broken, breathless sound, it was not to the storm, but to me, a testament to a pleasure so deep it felt like flight.
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