Evilangel
Brooklyn Gray, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The city lights bled a soft, orange glow through the window, casting long, dancing shadows across the tangled sheets. Her breath hitched as a calloused palm, warm and possessive, slid up the ide of her thigh, a slow, deliberate promise of what was to come. Another set of hands, softer yet equally sure, traced the delicate curve of her spine, making her arch tinctively into the touch. The air thickened with the scent of warm skin and anticipation, a heady perfume that clouded all rational thought. A low, guttural murmur near her ear sent a fresh shiver cascading through her, a tremor that was answered by the firm pressure of a muscular hip agat her own. She felt herself being guided, turned, her world narrowing to the sensation of lips on her neck and a strong, thick presence pressing intimately agat her from behind. Every nerve ending sang a chorus of pure, unadulterated need, her own soft moans mingling with the ragged breaths of her companions. The sheer, magnificent fullness that followed was an exquisite invasion, a stretching bliss that erased everything but the present moment of shared, primal connection. They moved in a perfect, hungry rhythm, a trio of bodies speaking a language older than words, lost in a symphony of sweat-slicked skin and shuddering release.
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