Evilangel
Linda Lan, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The amber glow of twilight spilled through the window, catching in the dust motes dancing like tiny fireflies around their entwined forms. A soft sigh escaped one woman’s lips as her partner’s fingers traced a slow, deliberate path from the delicate hollow of her throat down to the gentle curve of her hip, the touch a whisper of pure heat agat her skin. She arched into the contact, a silent plea for more, her own hands tangling in the silken strands of dark hair as she drew her lover closer. The air grew thick with the scent of jasmine and warm skin, a heady perfume that made every breath feel like a caress. Their mouths met again, not with frantic hunger, but with a deep, exploring languor that spoke of intimate knowledge and endless time. A low, throaty murmur vibrated between them as a questing palm cupped the full weight of a breast, a thumb brushing over a pebbled peak that strained for attention. The world outside the room dissolved into a distant hum, the only reality being the slick heat of their kiss and the thrilling pressure building low in their bellies. Every shift, every subtle roll of a pelvis, was a word in a silent language they spoke fluently, a promise of the crescendo yet to come. They moved as one creature of sensation, lost in the exquisite torment of drawn-out anticipation, where every nerve ending sang with the promise of release.
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