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Description
There are 20 bonus images in this set, and a unique story available here: www.patreon.com/posts/94829827
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A sliver of ruby light snaked through the crack in the heavy velvet curtains, painting a mischievous diagonal across the room. It settled on a tangle of dark, mahogany hair spilling across the plush green carpet, framing a face sculpted by celestial hands. There, nestled beneath the boughs of a towering Christmas tree, lay Lara Croft, the woman whose legend rivaled the gods. But on this particular Christmas morning, she was no immortal adventurer, no whip-cracking enigma. She was a slumbering siren, draped in the remnants of Christmas magic.
I, Charles Blackwood, collector of antiques and connoisseur of intoxicating beauty, stood frozen in the doorway. Years of facing down cursed amulets and whispering tombs had never left me so disarmed. Lara, the woman whose icy stare could freeze molten lava, looked positively… innocent. Her leather jacket, usually a second skin, lay discarded next to a shattered bauble. Her lips, those lips that had uttered pronouncements from lost civilizations, were slightly parted, whispering soft breaths that stirred the mistletoe above her head.
My heart, ever the overeager explorer, beat a feverish tattoo against my ribs. Was this some elaborate trap, a sphinx guarding a hidden riddle? Or was the fabled Tomb Raider truly at my mercy, a Christmas gift wrapped in moonlight? My fingers grazed the cold steel of my trusty revolver, a reassuring anchor in this surreal scene. But it was the curve of her calf, peeking from beneath a torn Christmas stocking, that truly sent my mind on a pirouette.
Memories flickered, tantalizing fragments of the previous night. A whispered invitation at a smoky auction, a goblet filled with something that glittered like stardust and tasted like forbidden desires. Then, a hypnotic dance through firelit hallways, Lara's laughter echoing like wind chimes in my ears. And… nothing. The final curtain remained stubbornly closed.
With a sigh that escaped like a whispered prayer, I approached. Each step on the plush carpet felt like an act of trespass, like defacing a masterpiece. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic dance, and I dared to brush a stray strand of hair from her cheek. It felt like liquid silk, a promise whispered on the wind.
Before I could lose myself in the labyrinth of her lashes, a soft groan shattered the spell. Her eyes, usually the steely grey of a winter storm, flickered open, the irises swirling with confusion and a hint of mischief. "Blackwood," she rasped, her voice husky with sleep, "always the punctual guest."
A grin lit up my face, as genuine as a sunrise. "Merry Christmas, Miss Croft. Seems Santa brought you down this chimney instead of reindeer."
Her brows arched, amusement dancing in her emerald depths. "Santa, or someone with a penchant for enchanted eggnog and a very persuasive tongue?"
We locked eyes, the air thick with unspoken desires. It was a game of unspoken dares, a tango played on the velvet stage of a moonlit Christmas morning. As she rose, stretching like a cat basking in the sun, I caught a glimpse of her bare shoulder, a map of scars tracing their own forgotten stories. They were battlegrounds I longed to explore, secrets whispered in ink and moonlight.
"Perhaps," I murmured, stepping closer, "a little of both."
A slow smile curved her lips, as intoxicating as the spiced wine still lingering on my tongue. "Then, Mr. Blackwood," she purred, her voice a velvet caress, "it seems Santa has brought me the most intriguing Christmas present of all."
And as the fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the ancient tapestry walls, the world outside ceased to exist. This Christmas morning, beneath the twinkling wonder of a million lights, the only gifts that mattered were the secrets waiting to be unwrapped, the mysteries hidden in the emerald depths of Lara Croft's eyes. And I, for one, couldn't wait to begin the excavation.

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The characters in this work of fiction are all consenting adults over the age of 18. All sexual acts depicted are consensual and legal. No one is being exploited or abused. If you or someone you know needs help, please contact the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800-656-4673.
Content on this page is generated by artificial intelligence and may contain inaccuracies or offensive material. Users should exercise discretion, and the page owners are not liable for any errors, views, or consequences.

Description
There are 20 bonus images in this set, and a unique story available here: www.patreon.com/posts/94829827
-------------------

A sliver of ruby light snaked through the crack in the heavy velvet curtains, painting a mischievous diagonal across the room. It settled on a tangle of dark, mahogany hair spilling across the plush green carpet, framing a face sculpted by celestial hands. There, nestled beneath the boughs of a towering Christmas tree, lay Lara Croft, the woman whose legend rivaled the gods. But on this particular Christmas morning, she was no immortal adventurer, no whip-cracking enigma. She was a slumbering siren, draped in the remnants of Christmas magic.
I, Charles Blackwood, collector of antiques and connoisseur of intoxicating beauty, stood frozen in the doorway. Years of facing down cursed amulets and whispering tombs had never left me so disarmed. Lara, the woman whose icy stare could freeze molten lava, looked positively… innocent. Her leather jacket, usually a second skin, lay discarded next to a shattered bauble. Her lips, those lips that had uttered pronouncements from lost civilizations, were slightly parted, whispering soft breaths that stirred the mistletoe above her head.
My heart, ever the overeager explorer, beat a feverish tattoo against my ribs. Was this some elaborate trap, a sphinx guarding a hidden riddle? Or was the fabled Tomb Raider truly at my mercy, a Christmas gift wrapped in moonlight? My fingers grazed the cold steel of my trusty revolver, a reassuring anchor in this surreal scene. But it was the curve of her calf, peeking from beneath a torn Christmas stocking, that truly sent my mind on a pirouette.
Memories flickered, tantalizing fragments of the previous night. A whispered invitation at a smoky auction, a goblet filled with something that glittered like stardust and tasted like forbidden desires. Then, a hypnotic dance through firelit hallways, Lara's laughter echoing like wind chimes in my ears. And… nothing. The final curtain remained stubbornly closed.
With a sigh that escaped like a whispered prayer, I approached. Each step on the plush carpet felt like an act of trespass, like defacing a masterpiece. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic dance, and I dared to brush a stray strand of hair from her cheek. It felt like liquid silk, a promise whispered on the wind.
Before I could lose myself in the labyrinth of her lashes, a soft groan shattered the spell. Her eyes, usually the steely grey of a winter storm, flickered open, the irises swirling with confusion and a hint of mischief. "Blackwood," she rasped, her voice husky with sleep, "always the punctual guest."
A grin lit up my face, as genuine as a sunrise. "Merry Christmas, Miss Croft. Seems Santa brought you down this chimney instead of reindeer."
Her brows arched, amusement dancing in her emerald depths. "Santa, or someone with a penchant for enchanted eggnog and a very persuasive tongue?"
We locked eyes, the air thick with unspoken desires. It was a game of unspoken dares, a tango played on the velvet stage of a moonlit Christmas morning. As she rose, stretching like a cat basking in the sun, I caught a glimpse of her bare shoulder, a map of scars tracing their own forgotten stories. They were battlegrounds I longed to explore, secrets whispered in ink and moonlight.
"Perhaps," I murmured, stepping closer, "a little of both."
A slow smile curved her lips, as intoxicating as the spiced wine still lingering on my tongue. "Then, Mr. Blackwood," she purred, her voice a velvet caress, "it seems Santa has brought me the most intriguing Christmas present of all."
And as the fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the ancient tapestry walls, the world outside ceased to exist. This Christmas morning, beneath the twinkling wonder of a million lights, the only gifts that mattered were the secrets waiting to be unwrapped, the mysteries hidden in the emerald depths of Lara Croft's eyes. And I, for one, couldn't wait to begin the excavation.

-------------------
The characters in this work of fiction are all consenting adults over the age of 18. All sexual acts depicted are consensual and legal. No one is being exploited or abused. If you or someone you know needs help, please contact the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800-656-4673.
Content on this page is generated by artificial intelligence and may contain inaccuracies or offensive material. Users should exercise discretion, and the page owners are not liable for any errors, views, or consequences.