Evilangel
Sheena Shaw Pic(s)
The first button gave way with a quiet sigh of fabric, a small release that sent a tremor through her solitary form. Moonlight, pale and liquid, spilled through the window to trace the newly revealed slope of her collarbone, a silver path on warm skin. Her fingers, moving with a deliberate slowness born of anticipation, continued their journey downward, each undone fastening a whispered promise. The silk of her blouse whispered a different story as it slid from her shoulders, pooling at her elbows like a discarded dream. A deep, centering breath filled her lungs, her chest rising and falling in the quiet room, the air itself seeming to thicken with potential. She let her palms glide up the sensitive skin of her abdomen, feeling the faint quiver of muscle beneath her touch, a map of nerves coming alive. Closing her eyes, she focused on the sensation, the heat building where skin met skin, a private sun igniting from within. A soft sound escaped her lips, not quite a word, but a vocalization of pure feeling that hung in the stillness. In this hushed sanctuary, every touch was an exploration, a rediscovery of the exquisite landscape of her own body, a journey begun alone but far from lonely.
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