Evilangel
Marykate Moss, Bryan Gozzling Pic(s)
The room dissolved into a haze of shared breath and the slick, rhythmic sounds of our union. Her mouth was a furnace of exquisite pressure, a masterful dance of tongue and suction that drew a guttural moan from the depths of my being. Every nerve ending felt alight, a constellation of pleasure centered entirely on the warm, wet haven she created. My hands tangled in her hair, not to guide but to anchor myself agat the rising tide of sensation threatening to pull me under. When our bodies finally joined in a more primal rhythm, it was with a force that stole the air from my lungs, each deep, driving thrust a punctuation mark in a silent, fervent conversation. The slap of skin agat skin echoed our ragged breathing, a raw soundtrack to the intense connection forging between us. Her eyes, dark pools of unwavering desire, locked with mine, reflecting the same frantic need that was coiling tight in my core. I could feel the subtle tremors beginning in her thighs, a precursor to the shared precipice we were rapidly approaching. The world narrowed to this single, shattering point of contact, a perfect, straining tension before the inevitable, glorious fall.
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