Filthykings
Alina Belle, Tony Rubino Pic(s)
The world narrowed to the space between us, the only sound a soft, wet rhythm that filled the quiet room. His fingers, strong and sure, tangled in my hair, not to force but to guide, a gentle pressure that spoke of a shared, desperate hunger. My own hands came up, palms cradling the base of his shaft, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there in a slow, counter-rhythm to the movement of my head. I could feel the heavy, musky scent of his arousal, a primal perfume that made my own body ache in response. Each time I took him deeper, my throat relaxed, opening to accept the full, hard length of him, a surrender that was its own form of power. A low groan rumbled from his chest, a vibration I felt through my lips and tongue, which traced the pulsing vein along his underside. My eyes drifted shut, the darkness amplifying every sensation—the salt on my skin, the weight on my tongue, the building tension in his thighs beneath my touch. The pressure of his grip tightened almost imperceptibly, a silent plea for more, a signal that his control was fraying at the edges. In that suspended moment, we were nothing but feeling, a perfect, breathless union of giving and receiving that teetered on the edge of release.
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