Evilangel
Maya Woulfe, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to shimmer with the heat of their collision, each powerful thrust a punctuation mark in the silent, desperate language of their bodies. Her back arched, a perfect, straining bow agat the yielding surface beneath her, a soft cry escaping her lips as a wave of sensation crested and broke within her. The rhythm was primal, an ancient cadence that spoke of nothing but this moment, this friction, this deep, claiming penetration that filled her completely. Sweat-slicked skin slid agat his, a salty, humid seal that bound them together with every relentless, driving motion. Her fingers dug into the solid muscle of his shoulders, clinging to him as if he were the only anchor in a storm of pure, undiluted pleasure. The world narrowed to the point of their joining, to the exquisite friction that built with a slow, agonizing pressure, coiling tighter and tighter deep in her core. He moved with a controlled, raw power that left her breathless, each inward stroke a promise and a demand, pushing her further toward the edge. A low, guttural moan vibrated through his chest and into hers, a sound of pure, unadulterated need that mirrored the frantic beating of her own heart. And as the tension finally snapped, it was a silent, shattering release that left her trembling, utterly consumed by the overwhelming force of their union.
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