Filthykings
Anissa Kate, Jonathan Jordan Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the Parisian garret, catching the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, suspended diamonds. Her breath hitched as his hands, warm and possessive, settled on the gentle curve of her hips, pressing her forward agat the cool silk of the duvet. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her lips, a mixture of anticipation and surrender, as he leaned in, his chest a solid wall of heat agat her back. The scent of his skin, a faint mix of soap and the city, filled her senses as he guided himself to her most intimate entrance with a deliberate, patient pressure. There was a moment of exquisite, breathless tension, a silent question hanging in the humid air, before he began a slow, inexorable advance that made her fingers clutch at the bedding. Each deliberate movement was a wave of sensation, a deep, filling stretch that bloomed into a surprising, radiant warmth spreading through her entire being. The world narrowed to the rhythm of their bodies, the slick, quiet sounds of their joining, and the low, approving murmur he breathed into the nape of her neck. She arched into him, meeting each thrust with a rolling motion of her own, losing herself in the primal, connecting pulse of the act. Finally, a shuddering release washed over them both, leaving behind a profound, languid stillness broken only by the distant hum of the city below.
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