Evilangel
Lina Mercury, Stirling Cooper, Ricky Mancini Pic(s)
The dim light of the room clung to her skin like a second layer, tracing the curve of her spine as she moved with a liquid grace that spoke of practiced intent. His calloused hands, rough from labor, found the delicate slope of her shoulder, a stark contrast that sent a visible tremor through her. A low murmur escaped her lips, not quite a word but a sound of pure, unadulterated wanting that hung heavy in the air between them. The scent of their mingled sweat, musky and primal, rose to greet them, an intoxicating perfume that promised filth and ecstasy in equal measure. He guided her down, the worn fabric of the couch rough agat her bare thighs, a sensation that was both abrasive and thrilling. Her back arched tinctively, pressing her body into his, a silent plea for more pressure, more friction, more of the delicious friction he so expertly provided. His mouth found the pulse hammering at the base of her throat, his tongue a hot, wet brand that promised to leave a mark long after the night was over. Every movement was a deliberate act of possession, a slow, grinding rhythm that built a coil of heat deep within her core. In that suspended moment, there was only the raw, grinding truth of their bodies speaking a language far older and more honest than words.
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