Evilangel
Jane Wilde, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The world narrowed to the intimate space between them, a universe contained within the soft gasp that escaped her lips as he pressed forward with a deliberate, patient istence. His hands, strong and sure, held her hips steady, grounding her as a slow, burning fullness began to bloom deep within her core. Every subtle shift of his body sent ripples of sensation through her, a private tide of pleasure that built with each measured, rhythmic motion. She could feel the fine sheen of sweat forming where their skin met, a slick, hot connection that seemed to fuse them together in the dim light. A low, guttural murmur vibrated agat her back, a sound of pure, unadulterated need that echoed the tightening coil of anticipation in her own belly. The air grew thick with the scent of their shared passion, a heady mixture of musk and salt that filled each ragged breath they took. He moved with a controlled power, each thrust a promise and a fulfillment, stretching her limits in the most exquisite way imaginable. Her fingers curled into the rumpled sheets, her knuckles white as she surrendered completely to the overwhelming wave of feeling, every nerve ending alight. In that suspended moment, there was nothing but the raw, primal connection, a perfect, shuddering harmony of flesh and desire that left them both breathless and utterly spent.
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