Burningangel
Gia DiMarco, Small Hands Pic(s)
The afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, striping her experienced skin with bars of gold that illuminated the intricate ink winding down her spine. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she arched her back, the movement a languid, practiced dance of muscle and memory beneath the tapestry of her art. His hands, calloused and warm, traced the vibrant patterns, following the curves of a serpent and the petals of a forgotten flower with reverent pressure. The air grew thick with the scent of their exertion, a primal perfume of salt and skin that clung to the humid silence of the room. A tremor began deep within her, a gathering storm of sensation that made the dragon on her shoulder blade seem to ripple with life. Her breath hitched, catching in her throat as the world narrowed to the point of exquisite contact, the friction building into a blinding white heat. A low, guttural sound was torn from him, a raw admission of surrender that preceded the warm, sudden release painting her skin. The pearlescent fluid landed in glistening streaks across the small of her back, a stark, beautiful contrast agat the permanent colors of her history. She held the pose for a long moment, a satisfied, knowing smile gracing her features as she felt the liquid warmth begin its slow, possessive trail downward.
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