Evilangel
Gianna Dior, Alberto Blanco Pic(s)
The velvet darkness enveloped them like a second skin, her breath hitching as his hands mapped the delicate landscape of her body with deliberate slowness. A low moan escaped her lips when his mouth found the sensitive curve of her neck, tasting the salt on her skin as his fingers traced the line of her spine. She guided him to the bed, the sheets cool agat her feverish back, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper into her warmth. Her head dipped lower, her lips parting to take him into the wet heat of her mouth, moving with a rhythm that made his entire body tense. The world narrowed to this singular, primal connection, the air thick with the sounds of their shared pleasure and the scent of their mingled arousal. He watched, mesmerized, as she moved over him, her hair cascading like a curtain around their faces, her inner muscles clenching around him with increasing urgency. A guttural cry was torn from his throat as the climax seized him, waves of sensation crashing through every nerve ending. She welcomed his release, swallowing the essence of his pleasure with a satisfied sigh, a testament to their complete union. In the trembling aftermath, they lay tangled together, skin slick and hearts pounding a frantic, slowing rhythm in the quiet room.
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