Mr. Harrylong
The final card’s scratch revealed her defeat, a soft sigh escaping her lips as the last of our cash was no longer the prize. Simone’s confident smirk faltered, replaced by a vulnerable tremor that danced in her eyes under the dim, indifferent light. Harry moved first, his hand a gentle but firm pressure on her shoulder, guiding her to her knees as a single tear traced a path down her flushed cheek. Her mouth yielded with a quiet, surrendering gasp, a profound and shocking intimacy that made the air itself feel heavy with shared breath. When my turn came, her body was pliant, her back arching slightly as a low whimper, more emotion than sound, escaped her. She was a study in contrasts, her spirit seemingly floating somewhere near the ceiling while her physical form remained, enduring and responsive. The tight clasp of her body was a silent testament to the cost of her loss, a fierce, hot embrace around the invading loneliness we offered. Through it all, she was present, her gaze locked on some distant point, her composure a fragile shield against the storm of sensation. A sheen of perspiration made her skin glow like a pearl in the murky room, each shuddering breath a chapter in this unspoken story. When it was over, she crumpled forward, her forehead resting against the cool floor, the scent of her perfume now mingled with the salt of spent passion and regret. We were all left hollowed out, the thrill of victory tasting unmistakably of ash, the price of the game finally, and devastatingly, paid in full.
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