Evilangel
Kianna Dior, Jonni Darkko Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun cast a molten gold sheen across the water’s surface, its warmth a stark contrast to the cool, damp tile beneath her back. His shadow fell over her first, a welcome eclipse that promised a different kind of heat, and she arched to meet the possessive weight of his hand on her hip. The scent of chlorine and coconut oil mingled with the salt of their skin as his mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, a silent language of desire spoken agat her flesh. Every slide of his body agat hers was amplified by the humid air, a slick, frictionless glide that made her gasp into his shoulder. Her fingers dug into the hard muscle of his back, anchoring herself as the world narrowed to the feeling of him moving within her, a rhythm as ancient as the tide. The gentle lapping of the pool agat the edge provided a liquid counterpoint to their ragged breathing, a symphony of mounting pleasure. A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her own as the tension coiled impossibly tight, a spring about to be released. The climax washed over them not like a wave, but like the sun-warmed water itself, a deep, flooding warmth that left her trembling and utterly spent. In the heavy, quiet aftermath, they lay tangled together, the only movement the slow drip of their shared release tracing a path down her thigh onto the sun-baked stone.
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