Evilangel
Naomi Swann, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The world dissolved into the rhythm of his hips, a steady, primal cadence that filled her completely. Each deep, claiming stroke was a wave of sensation, building from the molten core of her being and radiating outwards in shivering tremors. Her back arched, a silent plea for more as her fingers dug into the sheets, anchoring herself agat the delicious onslaught. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips, harmonizing with the slick, wet sounds of their joining, a symphony of raw need. She could feel the tension coiling tight within him, a gathering storm signaled by the tightening of his muscles beneath her touch and the sharp, ragged edge of his breath hot agat her neck. The final, shuddering thrust was an eruption, a flood of warmth that pulsed deep ide, and she welcomed it with a convulsive clutch of her own muscles, milking every last drop. As he stilled, spent and heavy upon her, she tilted her head back, a satisfied sigh whispering past her kiss-swollen lips. The taste of him, salty and uniquely masculine, lingered on her tongue, a testament to the completion she had willingly consumed. In the heavy, breathless quiet that followed, she felt utterly claimed, deliciously full, and profoundly at peace.
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