Evilangel
Alya Stark, Martin Spell Pic(s)
The air in the quiet room was thick and still, charged with the unspoken promise of the clandestine meeting. She stood before him, her youthful form silhouetted by the faint light filtering through the window, a vision of nervous anticipation. His gaze was a physical weight, tracing the delicate curve of her neck down to the gentle swell of her hips, making her skin prickle with awareness. As he stepped closer, the sheer magnitude of his presence, of the formidable masculine truth straining agat his trousers, stole the breath from her lungs. A single, tentative touch of her fingertips to the hard plane of his chest ignited a spark that raced through her entire being. He guided her hand lower, past the waistband, and her eyes widened at the discovery of his heated, rigid length, a proud and powerful column of flesh that pulsed with a life of its own. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped her lips as she wrapped her trembling fingers around its impressive girth, feeling the smooth, taut skin and the throbbing vein beneath. He groaned, a low, primal sound that vibrated through her, as she began a slow, exploratory rhythm, learning the contours of his arousal. In that hushed intimacy, the world outside ceased to exist, replaced entirely by the shared, breathless discovery of sensation and the overwhelming reality of their connection.
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