Evilangel
Isabel Moon, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The velvet darkness between her thighs held a secret gateway, a tightly furled rosebud that blossomed only for the most intimate of explorations. His thumb, slick with the essence of her arousal, traced a slow, deliberate circle around its delicate perimeter, feeling the subtle clench and yield beneath his touch. A sharp, sweet gasp escaped her lips as he applied the gentlest pressure, a silent plea for more that was answered by the slow, inexorable breach of his slickened tip. The sensation was one of profound fullness, a stretching heat that radiated outward, consuming her entire being in a wave of primal surrender. Every millimeter of his advance was a whispered promise, a careful conquest of tight, silken flesh that hugged him with possessive intensity. She arched her back, pressing herself deeper onto him, craving the unique friction that ignited sparks behind her closed eyelids. The rhythm began, a deep, languid pulse that was less about thrusting and more about a shared, undulating communion in that hidden, sensitive space. Each withdrawal was an agony of loss, each return a homecoming of exquisite pressure, building a tension that coiled tight in her core. Lost in the dark, rhythmic dance, they moved as one, chasing a climax that promised to shatter them both upon the altar of this most forbidden pleasure.
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