I was her muse, and she was my song. With my mouth and fingers, I composed a ballad across her skin—a verse along her neck, the chorus across her collarbone, lathing the refrain on her sensitive flesh so it puckered into peaks beneath the red lace of her bra. Another verse written on her quivering stomach. The bridge played on the apex of her thighs. Her pants and sighs added lyrics in a language spoken only by the two of us. My palms pressed against her sides, feeling the silky heat of her sk...
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I was her muse, and she was my song. With my mouth and fingers, I composed a ballad across her skin—a verse along her neck, the chorus across her collarbone, lathing the refrain on her sensitive flesh so it puckered into peaks beneath the red lace of her bra. Another verse written on her quivering stomach. The bridge played on the apex of her thighs. Her pants and sighs added lyrics in a language spoken only by the two of us. My palms pressed against her sides, feeling the silky heat of her skin. Hard fingertips spanned her ribcage as her breath shuddered in and out of her lungs. The jerky rhythm was a song in itself, the bass groove. Her moans, the melody. Our hearts, the lyrics. We were two hearts sharing one beat.
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