Evilangel
Anna de Ville, Lydia Black Pic(s)
The dim light caught the silver studs of her collar as she arched her spine, a silent offering to the shadows that clung to her pale skin. Her partner’s hands, adorned with intricate black tattoos, traced a slow, deliberate path from the sharp angle of her jaw down to the yielding softness of her stomach. A sharp, knowing gasp escaped her lips as those cool fingers finally found their purpose, parting her with an intimate and practiced pressure. The air grew thick with the scent of leather and salt, each shallow breath a testament to the building tension within the quiet room. She could feel the deliberate, stretching fullness, a sensation that bloomed from a deep, internal spark into a consuming fire. Every movement was a languid, controlled exploration, a silent language spoken between their connected bodies. Her world narrowed to the exquisite friction, the overwhelming sense of being utterly known and opened. A low, guttural moan vibrated agat her neck, a sound that was both a question and an answer to the unspoken need coiling in her core. This was a sacred violation of her own boundaries, a surrender that felt less like loss and more like a profound and powerful becoming.
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