Evilangel
Angelica Cruz, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to hold its breath, thick with the scent of warm skin and anticipation, as a single, slick finger traced a path of deliberate possession around the most intimate gateway. A sharp, sweet gasp escaped her lips, not of pain but of profound discovery, her body arching into the touch that promised a new frontier of feeling. Slowly, with infinite patience, that pressure deepened, breaching the tight ring of muscle in a wave of exquisite, burning fullness that made her whimper into the crook of her arm. Every nerve ending, once dormant, now sang a chorus of raw, unfiltered sensation, a private storm building deep within her core. His movements were a languid, rhythmic tide, each gentle thrust stoking a fire that spread through her belly and coiled tight. She could feel the very walls of her being yielding, opening, transforming the initial sting into a throbbing, pervasive pleasure that left her dizzy. The world narrowed to this singular, primal connection, a perfect, stretching friction that seemed to touch her very soul. A low moan, guttural and involuntary, rumbled in her chest as the tension snapped, unleashing a convulsive, shuddering release that racked her entire frame with its violent, beautiful intensity. Waves of bliss radiated outward from that central point, leaving her trembling and utterly spent, forever marked by the shocking depth of her own surrender.
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