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His thumbs found the knot in my shoulder with the practiced, ruthless precision of a man shucking oysters for a hungry crowd.
I told him the mud wrap was a spiritual cleansing, but I really just wanted to see if his composure would crack under the silt.
I watched the way the condensation pooled in the hollow of your throat, wondering if you knew my pulse was mirroring yours.
Her arousal wasn't a slow simmer; it was a flash-fry, a sudden hiss of moisture hitting hot oil that threatened to scar us both.