Evilangel
Selvaggia, Emily Brix, Erik Everhard Pic(s)
The humid air clung to their feverish skin like a second layer, charged with the reckless energy of a summer storm about to break. His fingers, tracing the delicate curve of her spine, left invisible trails of heat that made her arch agat the rough brick wall. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, not quite a word, but a promise of something raw and untamed. Her answering gasp was swallowed by the oppressive darkness of the alley, a secret shared only with the distant, indifferent stars. The scent of rain on hot asphalt mixed with the salt of their sweat, creating an intoxicating perfume of pure rebellion. Every frantic heartbeat was a drumbeat agat the other’s chest, a synchronized rhythm of mounting desire. Her nails dug into his shoulders, not in protest, but as an anchor in the swirling vortex of sensation, claiming him as her own. The world beyond their tangled limbs ceased to exist, reduced to the frantic meeting of mouths and the desperate slide of skin on skin. In that suspended moment, they were not merely young; they were feral creatures, consumed by a fire that threatened to burn down the very city around them.
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