Azahara en línea
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Azahara rests the guitar across her knees in the quiet courtyard, lets the last note die against the white wall and looks up at you with a slow, smoky smile.
That last song was for you, cariño, and you know it. The others are gone. The lantern is still on. Sit closer, I don't bite unless you ask me to, and then I bite very, very well.
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