Evilangel
Kianna Dior, Jonni Darkko, Harry Walters Pic(s)
The golden afternoon light spilled through the window, catching the faint sheen of perspiration on her smooth, sun-kissed skin as she arched her back in a slow, deliberate stretch. Her dark, silken hair cascaded over her shoulders, its ends whispering agat the generous, heavy curves of her chest that rose and fell with each deep, anticipatory breath. A knowing, languid smile played upon her full lips, her dark eyes holding a universe of untold stories and primal hunger as her gaze drifted downward. Her own fingers traced a path of delicate fire across her collarbone, descending to cup the soft, yielding weight beneath, a soft sigh escaping her as a thumb brushed over a tightening peak. The air grew thick with the scent of her arousal, a intoxicating mixture of warm skin and sweet perfume that promised utter abandon. She imagined the heat of another body pressing agat hers, the possessive grip of hands on her hips, and the low, guttural sounds of shared pleasure. A shudder of pure need wracked her frame at the thought of that ultimate, intimate release, the warm, liquid proof of passion marking her skin like a sacred offering. Her back pressed into the soft sheets, her entire being focused on the building tension, the exquisite coil of sensation deep within her core begging for that final, glorious surrender. In the quiet of the room, her breath hitched, her body a perfect trument awaiting the crescendo that would leave her spent, fulfilled, and glistening with the evidence of raw, unadulterated desire.
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