Evilangel
Yumi Sin, Bryan Gozzling Pic(s)
The world narrowed to the frantic rhythm of our bodies, a slick, percussive beat agat the plush silence of the room. His hands were not gentle but possessive, mapping the delicate architecture of my spine with a rough, knowing urgency that left trails of fire in their wake. A low groan escaped his lips, a raw, unfiltered sound that vibrated agat the damp skin of my throat as I arched to meet the demanding pressure of his hips. The air grew thick, heavy with the mingled scents of sweat, expensive whiskey, and the faint, intoxicating perfume of my own arousal. Every nerve ending felt exposed, singing with a desperate electricity that crested with each deliberate, grinding thrust that pushed me deeper into the yielding mattress. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, my own whispered pleas a stark contrast to the animalistic force of our collision. I could taste the salt on his shoulder, a primal flavor that anchored me to the sheer, unvarnished physicality of the moment. The silk sheets were a tangled ruin beneath us, a cool, slippery counterpoint to the searing heat building at our core, a tension coiling tighter and tighter. It was a glorious, messy ruin of composure, a symphony of gasps and grasping limbs hurtling toward an inevitable, shattering release.
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