Burningangel
Joanna Angel, Lance Hart, Dante Colle Pic(s)
The worn leather upholstery, still warm from the afternoon sun, releases a faint, musky scent as he shifts his weight, the creak of the seat a quiet counterpoint to the hum of the engine idling at the curb. His fingers, tracing a slow, deliberate path up the ide of her thigh, are not demanding but inquisitive, learning the delicate landscape of her skin through the sheer barrier of her stockings. She lets her head fall back agat the headrest, a soft sigh escaping her lips as his thumb finds the sensitive hollow just above her knee, applying a gentle, circling pressure that promises more. The city lights outside blur into streaks of gold and white, the world beyond the steamed-up windows receding into irrelevance, the confines of the vehicle becoming their entire universe. He leans in, his breath a warm caress agat her neck, his lips following the path his fingers charted, tasting the salt on her skin and the faint perfume behind her ear. Her own hands rise to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, her back arching tinctively to press her body agat the solid warmth of his chest, feeling the steady, accelerating rhythm of his heart. The gearshift digs into his side, a minor, forgotten discomfort as the space between them vanishes, filled tead with the shared heat of their breathing and the rustle of clothing being adjusted, not removed. Every movement is amplified in the intimate darkness, the slide of fabric, the catch of a zipper, the wet, hungry sound of a kiss that deepens with a shared, unspoken urgency. In this suspended moment, the mastery is not of the road ahead but of the exquisite tension coiling low in her belly, a silent, potent language of touch and surrender spoken perfectly in the dark.
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