Evilangel
Naomi Swann, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun, honey-thick and warm, spilled through the window, gilding the delicate curve of her spine as she knelt before him, a supplicant in the quiet temple of their shared desire. Her lips, slick and parted, met his rigid heat with a reverence that was both tender and ravenous, a slow, practiced rhythm that drew a low groan from deep within his chest. The scent of their passion, musky and sweet, hung heavy in the air as her tongue traced a torturous path along his throbbing length, her eyes fluttering closed in concentration. His hands tangled in her hair, not to guide but to simply feel the silken strands agat his skin, a silent plea for more of her intoxicating ministrations. A shift in position brought him above her, his body covering hers as he entered her warmth with a single, smooth stroke that made her gasp into the crook of his neck. The pace quickened, a primal dance of thrust and surrender, the sound of their joining a wet, rhythmic counterpoint to their ragged breaths. He felt the tension coiling tight in his core, an unstoppable tide rising to meet the crest of her own trembling climax. With a final, shuddering thrust, he withdrew, his release erupting in warm, pearlescent streaks across her flushed cheeks and parted lips. She remained perfectly still for a moment, a canvas adorned with his pleasure, before a slow, sated smile touched her glistening mouth, her tongue darting out to taste the salty evidence of their union.
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