Filthykings
Cadence Lux, Peter Green Pic(s)
The forgotten bottle of champagne, beaded with cool condensation, trembled in rhythm with the headboard’s persistent, muffled thud agat the wall. His mouth, hot and istent, traced a searing path from the delicate hollow of her throat to the frantic pulse at her wrist, each kiss a silent promise in the dim, celebratory light. Her fingers tangled desperately in his hair, not to guide but to anchor herself as a low, guttural moan escaped her lips, a sound swallowed whole by the hungry pressure of his own. The crisp cotton sheets, now hopelessly twisted around their legs, carried the faint, sweet scent of spilled wine and the intoxicating musk of their shared exertion. Every shift of his hips was a deliberate, powerful cadence, a primal language that her body answered with a yielding arch of her spine, pressing her bare skin flush agat the damp heat of his chest. The world outside, with its distant city hum and the lingering echoes of party chatter, dissolved into irrelevance, leaving only the symphony of their ragged breathing and the slick, rhythmic friction of their joining. She could feel the coiled tension building deep within her, a gathering storm fed by the scrape of his stubble agat her collarbone and the possessive grip of his hand on her thigh. His whispered name on her breath was not a plea but a surrender, an acknowledgment of the inevitable climax that was cresting, wave-like, through every nerve ending. And as the final, shattering tremor seized them both, the only thought that remained was the blinding, perfect truth that this clandestine collision was a gift far more profound than any wrapped in paper and bows.
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