Evilangel
Christiana Cinn, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun cast long, golden fingers across the polished floorboards, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the warm, still air. She moved with a quiet, practiced grace, the crisp white fabric of her uniform rustling softly with each deliberate bend and stretch. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened at the hollow of her throat, a testament to her diligent work, and the subtle, clean scent of lavender soap clung to her skin. As she leaned over the ornate dresser, a presence filled the space behind her, a warmth that made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. Strong hands found the curve of her hips, turning her gently but firmly, pressing her agat the solid wood until she felt the promise of his form. A soft, surrendering sigh escaped her lips as he guided himself into her most intimate space, a slow, stretching fullness that made her knees tremble and her breath catch in ragged gasps. The rhythm began, a deep, primal cadence that built with each thrust, each muffled cry swallowed by the opulent silence of the room. The tension coiled tight within her finally snapped in a blinding wave of pleasure, her body arching agat his as his own release followed, a hot, sudden rush painting her flushed skin in pearlescent streaks. She remained there for a long moment, breathless and marked, the evidence of their shared passion cooling on her cheeks as the golden light began to fade into twilight.
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