Evilangel
Lana Roy, Ste Axe Pic(s)
The humid air clung to their glistening skin, each exhale a soft puff of steam in the mirrored room. His powerful hands, slick with a fine sheen of sweat, traced the defined curve of her lower back, following the deep groove of muscle earned through relentless effort. A low, appreciative groan rumbled in his chest as she arched agat him, the firm swell of her buttocks pressing into his hardened thighs. Her own fingers, nimble and strong, tangled in the damp hair at his naul, pulling his mouth closer to the sensitive skin of her neck. The scent of their shared exertion, salty and primal, mingled with the faint aroma of clean rubber from the mats beneath them. Every flex of her abdomen, every taught sinew in his arms, was a testament to youthful vigor pushed to its most delicious limit. A bead of perspiration traced a slow, deliberate path from her collarbone down between her heaving breasts, a journey his eyes followed with hungry intensity. The only sounds were the slap of wet skin, their ragged breathing syncopating into a raw, urgent rhythm, and the quiet creak of the weight bench supporting their entangled forms. This was a language of the body, a silent, straining dialogue where every touch was a question and every shift was a profound, aching answer.
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