Teddy Tarantino
Charlotte Mae, Teddy Tarantino Pic(s)
Her breath caught in a trembling sigh as she lowered herself before him, the weight of her desire pooling low in her belly like warm honey. The anticipation was a living thing, coiling through her limbs and making her fingers ghost along the firm length of his thighs, tracing the heat that radiated from his skin. She met his gaze, a silent question that hung in the charged air between them, and the answer was a slow, possessive smile that deepened the flush spreading across her chest. When she finally took him into the velvet warmth of her mouth, a shudder of pure connection rippled through her, the taste of his longing a heady, salted promise on her tongue. She let herself sink deeper, the pressure of her own surrender a delicious ache in her throat, each inch a testament to the raw, unspoken bond they were forging. His hand tangled in the silk of her hair, not to guide, but to anchor himself to the earth as waves of pleasure rolled through him, his low groan a vibration that echoed in her very bones. The rhythm she found was a slow, deliberate dance, a language of give and take that spoke of a hunger older than words, her own core burning with a mirrored, urgent heat. He pulled her up, and in a heartbeat the world tilted, the cool air of the room kissing her skin as he turned her, his hands shaping the generous curve of her hips with an almost reverent ferocity. She arched into him, offering herself completely, and the thick, overwhelming fullness of his entry stole her breath, a perfect, blinding union that made her gasp into the sheets. As he moved behind her, deep and relentless, the shared rhythm crescendoed into a blinding peak, his release a warm, pulsing flood that sealed their tangled, breathless moment of pure, unspoken ecstasy.
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