Evilangel
Denise Martin, Nacho Vidal Pic(s)
The room was bathed in the soft, golden glow of the evening sun, casting long shadows that danced across the walls as she knelt before him, her eyes alight with a mixture of reverence and raw desire. Her fingers traced the hard lines of his abdomen, feeling the taut skin quiver beneath her touch as she moved lower, her breath hitching at the sheer magnitude of him. With a slow, deliberate motion, she leaned forward, her lips parting to welcome the velvety tip, a soft sigh escaping her as she tasted the salt of his skin. Her tongue swirled in gentle circles, exploring every ridge and vein, while her hands cupped the heavy fullness below, marveling at the weight and heat that pulsed agat her palms. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through her, and she took him deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate his girth as she lost herself in the rhythm. The world narrowed to this intimate space, filled with the sounds of ragged breathing and the slick, wet sounds of her devotion. She felt his hands tangle in her hair, not guiding but simply holding on, as if she were his anchor in a rising sea of pleasure. With each movement, she sensed his control fraying, his hips beginning to buck in time with her eager mouth, driving him closer to the edge. Finally, with a shuddering cry, he surrendered, and she drank him in, feeling a profound connection in that shared, breathless moment of release.
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