Missy van licks
The fading afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the silent air. His gaze was a physical weight, a soft pressure that made her breath catch in her throat. When his fingers finally brushed against her cheek, it was not a demand but a question, a whisper of contact that sent a tremor through her entire being. She leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed as a sigh escaped her parted lips. The world narrowed to this single point of connection, a delicate spark that threatened to ignite the kindling of her soul. His hand, so large and warm, cupped her jaw with an tenderness that felt like a promise. She could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart where her hand rested against his chest, a rhythm that began to sync with her own. In that suspended moment, every fear and doubt melted away, replaced by a profound and aching vulnerability. This was not a conquest, but a surrender, a silent language spoken only through skin and breath. A single tear traced a path down her temple, not of sorrow, but of overwhelming, incandescent joy.
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