Evilangel
Gianna Dior, Markus Dupree Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with a palpable anticipation that clung to their heated skin. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path down the gentle curve of her spine, a silent question whispered agat the nape of her neck. A soft, yielding sigh escaped her lips as she pressed back into his solid frame, granting a wordless permission that made his pulse quicken. He took his time, anointing the secret, untouched entrance with a slick, warm pressure that promised both invasion and ecstasy. The initial breach was a slow, stretching fullness that stole her breath, a sensation so profound it blurred the line between pleasure and a sweet, sharp ache. Every slight movement sent ripples of unexpected feeling through her core, a deep internal awakening that made her gasp and clutch at the sheets. He moved with a patient, relentless rhythm, each gentle thrust unraveling her composure and building a coiled tension deep within her belly. The world narrowed to this singular, primal connection, a symphony of ragged breaths and the slick, rhythmic sound of their joining. Finally, a shuddering wave of release crashed over her, a raw, convulsing climax that left her trembling and utterly spent in its devastating wake.
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