Selene Graves erotica writer
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Chattanooga summer wraps around you like a lover, inviting rituals and reckless abandon. The air buzzes with creativity as memories and sensual energy intertwine. Amidst warmth and whispers, fleeting connections spark, urging the heart to either risk vulnerability or bask in reflection, and the choice defines the magic of this slow, honeyed season.
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I feel him slide through the tightest spaces of my being. My hips rise to meet him. I gasp his name like it’s part of my breath.
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The way he looks at me like he already owns every secret inside me. The way I lean toward him like I’ve never stopped. We sip wine. We talk. We drift. We remember.
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I pause, lifting my leg slowly and draping it over the back of the couch, exposing the damp silk between my thighs.
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But Vaelvourin did not sleep. He watched the way moonlight played on her collarbones, the rise and fall of her chest. And when he stirred, it was not to leave, but to love her again.
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There’s a kind of ache that only comes after exposure. After you strip yourself bare; not for pleasure, but for honesty.
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I touched myself with the ease of a woman who knows she is the storm and the calm.
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At a candlelit masquerade, we pretended to be strangers. One touch unraveled us. until we discovered we were not alone. Someone had been watching.
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I’m not afraid of your hands on my body; I’m afraid of how easily I’d give you my soul, if you asked for it the right way.
The Osmosis of Flesh 