Diabolic
Kendra Lynn, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of her, a wild, earthy perfume that clung to the humid stillness. My fingers, trembling with a reverence I hadn’t anticipated, finally traced the soft, damp skin of her inner thigh, feeling the fine, delicate hairs stir at my touch. She arched her back, a silent plea escaping her parted lips as my knuckles brushed agat the hidden warmth waiting there. The dense, curling softness was a surprise, a lush and untamed thicket that yielded gently to the pressure of my palm. I lowered my head, my breath ghosting across her skin, and tasted the salt of her exertion, the intimate musk of her arousal. Every nerve ending in my body was alight, focused solely on the feeling of her body opening to me, a private flower in the shadowed heat. Her hips rose to meet my exploring hand, a slow, primal rhythm beginning as I learned the contours of her most secret self. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the slick, hot evidence of her pleasure coating my skin. In that suspended moment, there was nothing but the shared, breathless discovery of a territory both forbidden and profoundly right.
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