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He could be a brute with calloused hands or a poet with honeyed words, but none of it mattered once their bodies met. In that sacred, electric space between skin, labels dissolved — there was only the slow, deliberate worship of flesh. He knew how to listen without words, how to read the tremble in her thighs, the desperate ache of wanting more. Not every man is a good lover — but the one who learns her rhythm, who builds pressure like a storm on the horizon, who doesn't just take but devours — he becomes unforgettable. Because when he touches her, it’s not to prove anything. It’s to ruin her for anyone else.