Evilangel
Alyssa Reece, Vince Karter Pic(s)
The first touch was not a shock but a slow, inevitable yielding, a warmth that seeped through the thin barrier of silk as his palm settled on the curve of her hip. A sigh escaped her lips, not of surprise, but of profound recognition, as if a part of her had been waiting for this precise pressure for a lifetime. The air in the room grew thick, charged with the scent of their skin and the faint, sweet perfume of night-blooming jasmine from the open window. His fingers traced a languid path up the ladder of her spine, each vertebra a small continent discovered in the dark, each causing a subtle tremor to ripple through her frame. She arched into the contact, a silent plea for more, her own hands finding the solid plane of his back, learning the landscape of muscle and sinew. The world outside, with its distant city hum and passing lights, dissolved into irrelevance, the only reality being the expanding heat between their bodies. Every breath became a shared rhythm, a quiet tide pulling them deeper into a private ocean of sensation. His mouth found the sensitive hollow of her throat, and the kiss was a brand, a promise of a hunger that felt both ancient and entirely new. In that suspended moment, time itself seemed to stretch and warp, offering not an end but a boundless continuation of this exquisite, unfolding discovery.
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