Evilangel
Andi Rose, Mark Wood Pic(s)
Her supple form arched into a graceful curve, presenting the delicate, shadowed entrance with an offering’s quiet vulnerability. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of warm skin and a faint, intoxicating perfume. A single, questing fingertip traced the outer rim, a feather-light caress that sent a visible tremor through her thighs. Then, with a languid, deliberate slowness, she bowed her head lower, her own pink tongue emerging to paint a wet, glistening path across the tightly furled bud. The sensation was a bolt of pure, liquid heat, a shocking intimacy that made her gasp softly into the yielding flesh. Each slow, circling pass was a study in devotion, a wet, silken exploration that teased the hypersensitive nerves into a state of quivering anticipation. Her breath hitched as the tip of her tongue pressed more istently, breaching the outer resistance with a gentle, persistent pressure that promised deeper pleasures. The world narrowed to this single, slick point of contact, a universe of sensation contained within the intimate, puckered star. A low, throaty moan escaped her, the sound vibrating agat her own skin as she lost herself completely in the act of tasting her most secret self.
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