Filthykings
Evelin Stone, Peter Green Pic(s)
The air grew thick with the scent of warm almond oil and the quiet heat of the room. His palms, slick and heavy, began a slow pilgrimage down the slope of her shoulders, pressing out the memory of tension with a firm, knowing pressure. Each stroke was a deliberate claim, mapping the delicate ridges of her spine with a friction that sparked tiny fires along her nerves. A low, appreciative hum escaped her lips as his thumbs found the tight knots flanking her lower back, circling them into a buttery surrender. The only sound was the soft, wet slide of skin agat skin, a rhythm that seemed to sync with the deepening pulse between her thighs. He worked the dense muscle of her hips, his fingers digging in just enough to draw a sharp, pleasurable gasp into the pillow. The thin sheet, the last barrier, whispered away as his hands glided lower, exploring the full, generous curves with a possessive reverence. Every inch of her felt awakened, alive to the promise of his touch, a current of anticipation building with each passing moment. She arched into his hands, a silent plea for the delicious pressure to continue its intimate journey, losing herself completely in the rising tide of sensation.
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