Diabolic
Kaylee Haze, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick with a shared, unspoken hunger, a current that crackled between them as his fingers traced a slow, deliberate path down the curve of her spine. She arched into his touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips as his palm settled possessively on the small of her back, pulling her flush agat the hard line of his body. The scent of their mingled anticipation, warm skin and fading daylight, filled the space around them, intoxicating and primal. His mouth found the sensitive hollow of her throat, his tongue tasting the salt of her skin as her hands fumbled with the buckle of his belt, her knuckles brushing agat the growing heat beneath the denim. The world outside, with all its rules and expectations, dissolved into a meaningless hum as he lowered her onto the rumpled sheets, the fabric cool agat her feverish skin. His gaze, dark and heavy with intent, locked with hers, a silent question answered by the parting of her thighs and the eager tilt of her hips. Every nerve ending awoke as he entered her, a slow, filling stretch that made her gasp his name into the crook of his neck. Their rhythm began, a deep, rolling cadence of thrust and surrender, each movement a perfect, frictionless glide into blissful oblivion. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the soft, wet symphony of their joining, a private concert building towards a shattering, inevitable crescendo.
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