Evilangel
Kianna Dior, Jonni Darkko Pic(s)
The room held its breath as she arched agat the silk sheets, a low moan escaping her lips like a long-kept secret finally set free. Her skin, warmed by the dim lamplight, glistened with a fine sheen of perspiration that traced the elegant curve of her spine. Each deliberate movement was a silent poem of desire, her hips rising to meet an invisible rhythm only her body could hear. Fingers tangled in the dark spill of her hair as her head fell back, exposing the graceful line of her throat where a pulse beat a frantic, eager tattoo. The air grew thick with the scent of her arousal, a sweet, musky perfume that promised utter abandon. A shudder wracked her frame, her breath catching as waves of pleasure began their slow, inexorable build deep within her core. Her cries grew louder, more istent, raw and unfiltered sounds of a woman completely consumed by sensation. Every muscle tensed and then released in a glorious, trembling surrender as the climax crashed over her, leaving her spent and breathless. In the quiet aftermath, a slow, satisfied smile touched her lips, the final testament to a pleasure profoundly and thoroughly taken.
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