Evilangel
Zaawaadi, Lottie Magne Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of warm skin and salt, a palpable heat radiating from the two figures entwined upon the rich, dark leather. Her back arched, a perfect bowstring of pleasure as a low moan escaped her lips, lost agat the damp skin of her partner’s shoulder. Fingers, delicate yet possessive, traced the pronounced line of a collarbone before tangling in a cascade of sun-kissed hair. A sharp intake of breath was the only warning before a mouth found its way to a taut nipple, the tongue circling with agonizing slowness. The response was immediate, a shudder that ran through the entire length of the receiving body, a silent plea for more. Muscles coiled and relaxed in a primal rhythm, the slick sound of their union a private music beneath the heavy breathing. He watched them, a powerful presence whose gaze was a physical weight, stoking the flames of their shared performance. Every shift, every gasp, was a testament to the raw, unspoken hunger that bound the trio together in that suspended moment. The world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the intense, focused language of touch and whispered desire.
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