Evilangel
Polly Petrova, Natasha Rios Pic(s)
The first touch was not of skin, but of a shared, heated breath that fogged the scant space between their mouths. Her fingers, trembling with a current of pure anticipation, traced the delicate ridge of a collarbone, feeling the frantic pulse that beat just beneath the surface like a captured bird. A low, approving hum vibrated from one throat to the other, a sound that seemed to melt the remaining tension from their shoulders. The scent of jasmine and warm, sun-kissed skin filled the air, an intoxicating perfume that promised decadent secrets. As lips finally met, it was not a collision but a slow, deliberate exploration, a tasting of promises whispered in the dark. The world beyond the rumpled sheets dissolved into an indistinct blur, the only reality being the yielding softness of flesh beneath seeking hands. A trail of open-mouthed kisses descended a graceful neck, each one leaving a faint, blooming flush in its wake. Fingertips skimmed over a taut stomach, causing muscles to flutter in a reflexive, eager response to the intimate caress. In the heavy, silent language of desire, every sigh and every shift of weight spoke volumes, weaving a tapestry of mounting pleasure that tightened around them both.
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