Diabolic
Jenna Foxx, Ricky Johnson Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the sharp, clean fragrance of his skin, a heady perfume that made her head spin. Her fingers, pale as moonlight agat the deep, rich canvas of his back, traced the powerful ridges of muscle there, learning a topography of pure strength. He lowered his mouth to the delicate hollow of her throat, and the heat of his lips was a brand, a searing promise that made her gasp into the silent darkness. The world outside, with all its rules and sharp-edged judgments, dissolved into nothing more than a distant murmur agat the roaring of her own blood. Every slow, deliberate movement of his hips was a language older than words, a primal rhythm that answered a question her body had been asking its whole life. She arched agat him, a silent plea for more, her nails lightly scoring his shoulders as a wave of pleasure began to build deep within her core. The only sound was their mingled breath, ragged and urgent, a secret symphony composed just for them in this hidden sanctuary. In his dark, unwavering gaze, she saw not sin, but a reflection of her own fierce, unspoken desire, a truth too potent to be contained. This was a communion of shadows, a stolen hour where touch became the only scripture and surrender the highest form of worship.
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