Diabolic
Reagan Foxx, Damien Thorne, Van Wylde Pic(s)
A soft gasp escaped her lips as her back arched agat the silken sheets, her body becoming a landscape of tremors under my touch. The air grew thick with the scent of her arousal, a sweet musk that clung to the dimly lit room like a secret. My fingers traced the delicate curve of her hip, feeling the tension coiling deep within her muscles, a spring waiting to be released. A low, throaty moan vibrated agat my skin as I found the hidden rhythm that made her shudder, each movement a deliberate promise of what was to come. Her eyes, dark pools of liquid need, fluttered shut, surrendering completely to the waves of sensation building ide her. The delicate flush spreading from her chest to her throat was a map of her mounting passion, a beautiful fever I was honored to witness. Every nerve in her being seemed to tighten, focused on that singular point of contact where pleasure concentrated into an almost unbearable intensity. Then, with a sharp, breathless cry that was half-sob, half-triumph, the dam broke and she convulsed around me, a series of rhythmic pulses that spoke a language more primal than words. In the heavy, breathless quiet that followed, her body went limp, a contented sigh whispering past her lips as she melted into the mattress, utterly spent and radiant.
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