Evilangel
Angelika Grays, Vince Karter Pic(s)
The first touch was not of skin, but of a gaze, heavy and deliberate, stripping away the mundane world with an unspoken promise. A low, ambient light gilded the edges of the room, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to breathe in time with a suddenly racing heart. The air itself grew thick, perfumed with the intoxicating blend of warm amber and the faint, clean scent of anticipation. His fingers, when they finally traced a path from a vulnerable throat to a collarbone, were not rough but knowing, mapping a territory both familiar and thrillingly new. Each slow, deliberate caress was a silent question that received its answer in the sharp, soft intake of a breath and the yielding of tense muscle. The whisper of expensive fabric sliding from a shoulder was a sound more profound than any moan, a prelude to the heat of contact. A mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of the neck, not to claim, but to savor, a hot, open-mouthed kiss that sent shivers cascading down a spine. Every rational thought began to dissolve, replaced by the pure, raw data of sensation: the weight of a hand on a waist, the scratch of stubble on tender flesh, the building pressure deep within. This was the threshold of a dream, a carefully constructed reality where every whispered desire was given form and permission to run wild.
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