Wicked
Romi Rain, Logan Pierce Pic(s)
The room was bathed in the low, honeyed glow of lamplight, casting long, dancing shadows that clung to the curves of her body as she moved. A soft sigh escaped her lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that seemed to hang in the air between them. His hands, strong and knowing, traced a path from the delicate slope of her shoulder down to the lush, heavy swell of her breasts, his thumbs circling the hardening peaks with a tantalizing slowness. She arched into his touch, a silent plea for more, her skin flushing with a warmth that radiated from her very core. The scent of her arousal, musky and sweet, mingled with the faint, clean smell of his skin, creating an intoxicating perfume that filled his senses. He lowered his head, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of her neck, his tongue leaving a wet, hot trail that made her gasp and clutch at his back. Every nerve ending felt alive, electric, as his fingers continued their exploration, dipping into the soft, wet heat between her trembling thighs. The world outside this intimate space ceased to exist, reduced to the symphony of their ragged breaths and the slick, rhythmic sounds of their joining. It was a dance of pure sensation, a building wave of ecstasy that promised a shattering, glorious release.
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