Evilangel
Bella Rolland, Rob Piper Pic(s)
The world narrowed to the intimate geography of her form, a landscape of yielding softness and breathtaking curves that invited a cartographer’s devoted study. His gaze was a slow, deliberate touch, mapping the generous swell of her hips and the deep, shadowed valley of her spine. Each breath she took was a gentle tide, a rhythmic push agat the fabric of her silence that promised profound depths to be explored. His fingers, when they finally made contact, traced the perfect, full hemispheres with a reverence reserved for sacred ground, feeling the warm, living silk of her skin. A low, approving hum vibrated in his chest as he applied the slightest pressure, witnessing the flesh give way then spring back with a resilient vitality. He leaned closer, his breath a warm mist upon her, catching the faint, musky scent of her arousal mingled with the clean scent of her sweat. This was not a crude examination but a silent dialogue, a wordless inquiry into the very essence of her physical being. She arched in response, a silent plea for a deeper understanding, her body speaking a language of need more eloquent than any words. In that hushed space, the only analysis that mattered was the one written in the trembling of her thighs and the soft, surrendering sigh that escaped her lips.
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