21Sextury
Kris The Foxx, Willy Regal Pic(s)
The humid air clung to their skin like a second, eager lover as they moved with a raw, unstudied grace agat the backdrop of the city’s distant, indifferent hum. His hands, possessive and sure, traced the delicate curve of her spine, a slow descent that made her arch into his touch, a silent plea for more. Her own fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer until their breath mingled, hot and sweet with the taste of stolen wine and reckless abandon. The light from a single, bare bulb cast long, dancing shadows that caressed the sharp angle of his jaw and the soft swell of her breast, painting them in shades of gold and deepest umber. A soft, throaty moan escaped her lips as his mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, a sound that was both surrender and command. He answered with a low growl, his hips pressing hers agat the cool, unyielding wall, the friction a delicious promise of what was to come. Every sense was heightened, from the scent of their mingled sweat, musky and primal, to the sight of her head falling back in ecstasy, exposing the pale, vulnerable column of her neck. They were a living sculpture of desire, each movement a bold, unapologetic statement meant for an audience that existed only in the thrilling possibility of being seen. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the slick heat of skin on skin, the shared, gasping breaths, and the exhilarating freedom of casting all caution to the wind.
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