Evilangel
Angelika Grays, Raul Costa Pic(s)
The humid air clung to her skin like a second, more intimate garment, thick with the scent of warm perfume and the faint, metallic whisper of anticipation. Her fingers, tipped with nails the color of a deep bruise, traced a slow, deliberate path down the curve of her own throat, over the delicate ridge of her collarbone. Each inch of skin she touched seemed to awaken, a low hum of electricity following in the wake of her touch. She let the thin strap of her chemise slide from her shoulder, the black silk a stark contrast agat the flushed warmth of her flesh. A soft, knowing sigh escaped her lips as she cupped the full weight of her breast, her thumb brushing back and forth over a peak that hardened tantly to her own command. Her other hand drifted lower, palm flattening agat the tense plane of her stomach, feeling the muscles quiver in response. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the private theater of sensation, where every nerve ending was a live wire and every thought was consumed by the building pressure. The world outside this room dissolved into nothing, leaving only the profound, aching awareness of her own body and its deep, gathering need. This was a ritual of self-discovery, a deliberate and unhuried exploration of the pleasure that coiled, hot and patient, deep within her core.
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