Evilangel
Kris The Foxx, Vince Karter Pic(s)
The heavy oak door clicked shut, muffling the distant city hum and enclosing them in a world of hushed expectation. He watched from the deep leather chair as she moved, the deliberate sway of her hips a silent language he understood perfectly. The air grew thick with the scent of her perfume, a daring mix of night-blooming jasmine and warm skin. Her fingers, tipped in crimson, trailed slowly down the front of her crisp white blouse, pausing at each button as if considering a profound question. A soft sigh escaped her lips as the fabric parted, revealing the delicate lace beneath that clung to the gentle curve of her breast. The only light came from a single brass lamp, casting long, dancing shadows that caressed the planes of her body as she turned. She let the blouse slip from her shoulders to pool silently on the rich Persian rug, her eyes never leaving his, dark with a promise of complicity. The sharp sound of a zipper lowering seemed unnaturally loud, a prelude to the whisper of silk sliding down her thighs. He leaned forward, his gaze intense and appreciative, completely captivated by the private performance unfolding just for him.
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