Evilangel
Theodora Day, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of our mingled sweat and the fading perfume she had dabbed behind her ears hours ago. His low, guttural groan was a vibration agat her skin as he drove himself deeper, each thrust a deliberate, claiming rhythm that made the fine hairs on her arms stand alert. Her back arched, a perfect, desperate curve agat the rumpled silk sheets, her fingers digging into the powerful muscles of his shoulders. A sheen of perspiration glistened in the hollow of her throat, catching the dim, golden light from the single lamp casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. Her whispered pleas were not for him to stop, but for more, a breathy mantra lost in the humid space between their feverish mouths. He could feel the tight, fluttering tension coiling within her, a telltale sign of her impending surrender that spurred his own frantic pace. The world narrowed to this single point of connection, the slick, hot friction building into an unbearable, exquisite pressure. When the climax finally shattered through her, it was a silent scream that contorted her beautiful features, her inner muscles convulsing around him in rhythmic waves. His own release followed tantly, a hot, pulsing flood that filled her completely, a profound, liquid warmth that sealed their intimate covenant in the quiet aftermath.
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