Evilangel
Alex Coal, Jason Moody Pic(s)
The air grew thick with the scent of his skin, a heady mixture of clean sweat and musk as I lowered my mouth, my lips parting in a slow, deliberate surrender to the hard heat of him. A low groan rumbled from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that vibrated agat my tongue as I took him deeper, my rhythm a languid, worshipful cadence. His hands tangled in my hair, not guiding, but feeling, his fingers tightening with each slow, drawn-out pass of my lips along his length. The world narrowed to this single point of connection, the slick friction and the ragged sound of his breathing growing more urgent, until he pulled me up, his eyes dark with a desperate hunger. He entered me in one fluid, powerful motion, filling me completely, our bodies moving together in a primal dance of thrust and surrender agat the cool sheets. Every nerve ending sang with the friction, the slap of skin on skin a percussive beat to our shared, mounting crescendo. I could feel the tension coiling tight within him, a spring about to snap, his movements becoming faster, more frantic. With a final, guttural cry, his release erupted, a warm, pearlescent flood that painted my skin in streaks of liquid warmth, marking me with the evidence of his climax. We stayed there for a long moment, suspended in the aftershock, the only sound our mingled, shuddering breaths in the quiet room.
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