Whiteghetto
Beaue Marie, Shorty Mac Pic(s)
The golden afternoon light spilled through the window, catching the fine mist of perspiration on their entwined bodies as they moved in a rhythm as ancient as the tides. His hands, dark and strong, traced a path of fire up the pale expanse of her trembling thighs, each calloused thumb a promise agat her yielding softness. A low, guttural moan escaped his lips, swallowed by the humid air between them, while her fingers dug into the powerful muscles of his back, her nails leaving faint, possessive trails. The scent of their union, salty and sweet like the ocean after a storm, filled the room, intoxicating them further. She arched agat him, a silent plea for more, her breath catching as he filled her completely, a perfect, urgent joining that made the world outside their sanctuary cease to exist. Every nerve ending sang with a raw, electric current, a symphony of sensation building to an inevitable, shattering crescendo. He watched her, his dark eyes holding hers with an intensity that stripped away all pretense, seeing only the raw, unfiltered woman unraveling beneath him. The friction was exquisite, a building pressure that coiled tight in her core, threatening to break with each deliberate, powerful thrust. And as the final wave of pleasure crashed over them, it was a silent, shared language of shudders and gasps, a moment of pure, unadulterated being.
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