Evilangel
Julia Rain, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The first heavy drops fell like a sudden, cool benediction upon her heated skin, each one a tiny, shocking punctuation agat the simmering stillness of the afternoon. She tilted her head back, allowing the downpour to plaster her dark hair to her scalp and stream in rivulets down the column of her throat, tracing the delicate hollows of her collarbone. The thin fabric of her dress, once a soft barrier, became a second, translucent skin clinging to every curve and plane of her body, revealing more than it concealed as it darkened to a deep, wet slate. A shiver, not of cold but of pure, unadulterated sensation, coursed through her as the water soaked through, the chill a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from within. She could feel the weight of the saturated material pulling agat her shoulders, hugging the swell of her breasts and the gentle slope of her waist with a possessive, liquid embrace. The scent of petrichor, that primal perfume of awakened earth, filled her lungs, mingling with the clean, metallic tang of the storm and the faint, personal musk of her own arousal. Closing her eyes, she focused on the symphony of the deluge, the drumming on the leaves above and the slick, wet sound of her own hands smoothing over her slick arms. Every nerve ending felt alive, hyper-aware of the water’s journey as it sought the secret, sheltered places where her pulse beat a frantic, eager rhythm. It was a baptism into pure physicality, a moment where the boundary between her body and the storm blurred into a single, shuddering, drenched whole.
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