Evilangel
Cherie DeVille, Charles Dera, Codey Steele Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of warm skin and whispered promises. His hands, possessive and knowing, mapped the delicate curve of her spine, descending with a deliberate slowness that made her breath catch. A single finger traced the forbidden seam of her, a feather-light promise of the intimacy to come, and she arched in silent, desperate invitation. The initial pressure was a universe of sensation, a slow, inexorable yielding that blurred the lines between pleasure and exquisite surrender. Every nerve ending sang as he filled her completely, a profound joining that felt less like an invasion and more like a homecoming to a place she never knew she craved. The rhythm he established was a primal language, each movement a decadent friction that coiled a tight, burning heat deep within her core. Whimpers escaped her lips, not of pain, but of overwhelming ecstasy, each gasp a testament to the shattering of her own inhibitions. The world narrowed to this single, consuming point of connection, where every thrust was a lesson in a delicious, wicked freedom. She was utterly claimed, lost in a spiral of sensation that promised a climax as deep and dark as the sin they were committing.
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