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of golden figures that breathe like mountains do

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From the corner of her eyes, Ivy watches Harley vault onto the low beam. She positions herself, chest out, arms overhead, as if there were a live audience of more than just Ivy and her potted plants. Harley knows how to draw attention because when she begins her routine, Ivy forgets all about fertilizing her orchids.

Harley flips through the air with ease, twists and turns forwards and backwards, and while that is certainly impressive, the effect of Harley dipping low, dragging her legs outward, and lifting her torso over her head is more immediate. A flash of heat burns through her entire body as Harley curls in on herself, back nearly bent in half and stomach exposed, feet touching her hands.

Ivy feels the sweat on Harley's temple mirrored on her own. The muscles in Harley's stomach flex and shift as her legs straighten and almost float into a split. Ivy can't take her eyes off her cotton shorts as they wrinkle and stretch with every move.

By the time Harley lands in front of the beam with a flourish and a smile so broad you'd think she'd indeed be judged for it -- come to think of it, she'd been smiling the entire time -- her chest is heaving, and so is Ivy's.

"Are you done?" She sidles up to Harley, more breathless than flirtatious.

"Why?" Harley's expression is devious.

"Because this," she says, hands sliding down Harley's shorts to give her beautiful ass a firm squeeze, "is mine now."