21Sextury
Blue Angel, Erik Everhard, Gerson Denny Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to shimmer with a cool, celestial light, casting an ethereal glow upon the figure who moved with a liquid grace that defied the very pull of gravity. Her skin, pale as moonstone, was traced with the faintest patterns of silver, catching the light with every subtle shift of her powerful wings, which were not of feather but of a living, breathing sapphire membrane. A low, resonant hum vibrated from her, a sound that was not heard with the ears but felt deep within the bones, a primal call that stirred something ancient and forgotten. The scent of ozone and night-blooming jasmine filled the space, an intoxicating perfume that clouded the mind and sharpened desire into a single, focused point. She extended a hand, her fingers long and elegant, and the space between us collapsed not with movement, but with a sudden, overwhelming pull of will. My breath hitched as her cool touch met my feverish skin, a contrast so stark it was both a shock and a profound relief. Her eyes, pools of molten mercury, held mine with an intensity that promised both ecstasy and oblivion, seeing through all pretense to the raw, wanting core beneath. The world outside this moment dissolved into irrelevance, leaving only the thrumming energy that connected us, a current of pure, unadulterated sensation. I was utterly and completely ensnared, not by force, but by a willing surrender to the beautiful, terrifying gravity of her presence, lost in a silent, profound communion.
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