Evilangel
Charlotte Sartre, Steve Q, John Johnson, Angelo Godshack, Michael Fly, Darrell Deeps Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to pulse with a low, primal heat, thick with the mingled scent of sweat and anticipation. A soft gasp escaped her lips as a calloused palm traced the delicate curve of her spine, a shiver of pure electricity following its path. Another set of hands, warm and sure, cupped her shoulders, kneading away the last vestiges of tension as a mouth found the sensitive hollow of her throat. She was the center of a swirling vortex of sensation, a symphony of touch where every point of contact sang a different, urgent note. Fingers tangled in her hair, not pulling, but guiding, tilting her head back to meet a deep, searching kiss that tasted of salt and desire. The low murmur of masculine voices blended into a single, hypnotic rhythm that vibrated through the floorboards and into her very bones. She felt the hard press of a thigh between her own, a firm counterpoint to the gentle exploration of a mouth on her breast, each sensation layering upon the next without beginning or end. Her world narrowed to the feeling of skin agat skin, the shared breath, the collective rhythm building towards an inevitable, shattering crescendo. In that suspended moment, she was utterly consumed, a willing vessel filled with nothing but the raw, overwhelming present.
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