Wicked
Coco Lovelock, Evan Stone Pic(s)
The golden afternoon light spilled through the window, catching the faint sheen of sweat on his sculpted shoulders as he moved with a confident, unhurried rhythm. His powerful frame was a landscape of taut muscle and sun-kissed skin, each shift and flex a silent promise of raw, untamed strength held in careful check. A low, guttural sound rumbled deep within his chest, a primal counterpoint to the soft, shuddering sighs that escaped his partner’s lips. His gaze, dark and intensely focused, remained locked on hers, seeing nothing else in the world but the raw vulnerability and desire reflected back at him. The scent of him, a heady mix of clean musk and warm skin, filled the air, an intoxicating perfume that made her head spin. His hands, calloused yet incredibly gentle, traced a path of fire down her spine, learning every curve and hollow as if committing her very essence to memory. Every deliberate, rolling motion of his hips was a masterful stroke, building a delicious, coiling tension that threatened to shatter her from the ide out. The world narrowed to this single, breathless point of connection, where two bodies spoke a language older than words, a symphony of gasps and tangled limbs. In that suspended moment, he was pure, unadulterated masculine energy, a force of nature completely devoted to the singular, exquisite art of her pleasure.
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