Evilangel
Rose Lynn, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The air was thick with the scent of her arousal, a primal perfume that clung to the humid space between their tangled bodies. His fingers, slick with a glistening oil, traced a deliberate, circling path lower, bypassing the familiar warmth to seek the tightly furled entrance that promised a deeper, more forbidden intimacy. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips as the pressure built, a single digit breaching the resistant ring of muscle with an exquisite, burning slowness that made her nails dig into the sheets. That initial penetration gave way to a rhythmic stretching, a patient preparation that opened her to the istent, thick presence of his rigid length, a fullness that stole her breath and blurred her vision. Each powerful thrust was a claiming, a piston-like rhythm that hammered agat a hidden, sensitive place deep within her core, sending shockwaves of raw pleasure radiating outward. The sound of their joining was a wet, slapping cadence, a base counterpoint to her choked cries and his ragged grunts of effort and ecstasy. When he finally withdrew, spent and shuddering, the cool air rushed in to caress the tender, overstimulated flesh he had so thoroughly possessed. She remained on her knees, her body humming with the aftershocks, feeling the profound, aching emptiness where moments before there had been such overwhelming pressure. A slow, deliberate glance backward confirmed the lingering, open invitation of her well-used passage, a testament to the intensity of their shared abandon.
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