Evilangel
Chanel Grey, Ramon Nomar Pic(s)
The air itself felt thick and heavy, a warm haze of mingled breath and the faint, expensive scent of bergamot and sandalwood that clung to the silken sheets. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path up the ide of her thigh, a silent promise that made her arch agat the tangled linen. A low moan escaped her lips as another man’s mouth found the sensitive curve of her neck, his stubble a delicious friction agat her skin. Across the dimly lit room, shadows danced on the walls, capturing the fluid, undulating motion of entangled limbs glistening with a fine sheen of perspiration. Every touch was an electric current, a shared secret passed from one body to the next in a circuit of escalating need. The world narrowed to the sensation of a hand splaying across her stomach, holding her steady as a deeper, more urgent pressure began to build and bloom within her. A chorus of ragged breaths and whispered encouragements filled the space, a symphony of pure, unadulterated pleasure. She felt the moment of culmination not as her own, but as a collective release, a warm, flooding wave of intimacy that spilled over, binding them all in its languid, satisfying aftermath. In the quiet that followed, the only sound was the gentle, rhythmic panting and the profound sense of shared, sated completion.
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