Whiteghetto
Rikki Love, Jordan Ash Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of warm skin and anticipation, a palpable energy that hummed agat the bare walls. He moved with a languid, confident grace, each flex of his lean torso a study in controlled power, the pale canvas of his back catching the low light like marble. A soft groan escaped his lips, a raw sound that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards as his hands traveled down the taut plane of his stomach. Every shift of his hips was a deliberate promise, a slow, rhythmic undulation that spoke of gathering intensity and raw, unvarnished need. Beads of sweat traced glistening paths along the sharp lines of his collarbone, catching in the fine, golden hair dusting his forearms as he arched into the motion. The sight was mesmerizing, a display of youthful vigor and unashamed desire that held the gaze captive, each sinew and corded muscle defined in stark relief. His breath hitched, a sharp intake that punctuated the heavy silence, his entire being focused on the rising tide of sensation coursing through him. A flush crept up his neck, painting his skin a feverish pink as the tension coiled tighter, a spring ready to unleash its potent force. Finally, a shudder wracked his frame, a complete and utter surrender to the climax that left him breathless and spent, the echo of his release hanging in the charged air.
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