Evilangel
Lana Roy, David Perry Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken with the scent of her, a heady mixture of warm skin and anticipation. His fingers traced the delicate curve of her spine, a slow, deliberate pilgrimage downward until they found the hidden pucker, a tight blossom of nerve endings that made her gasp into the pillow. He worked her with a patient, oil-slicked thumb, feeling the initial resistance yield into a profound, welcoming warmth as her body opened for him. The penetration was a slow, inexorable tide, filling her completely, each measured thrust a masterful stroke that built a deep, resonant pressure within her core. Her moans became ragged prayers, her nails scoring the sheets as the sensation bloomed from a singular point into a full-body tremor. He could feel the telltale clenching deep ide her, the involuntary spasms that signaled an approaching cataclysm, and he angled his hips to press agat that secret, swollen place. The climax did not simply arrive; it erupted from her in a hot, sudden gush, a liquid release that soaked the linen beneath her trembling thighs as a choked cry was torn from her throat. For a long, suspended moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing, the room humming with the raw, beautiful aftermath of their connection. He remained within her, a solid anchor as the last shudders of her pleasure gently subsided into a profound and liquid peace.
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