Evilangel
Misha Maver, Lutro, Charlie Dean Pic(s)
The humid air clung to their glistening skin like a second silken layer, charged with the raw scent of exertion and desire. His powerful hands, calloused and sure, mapped the trembling landscape of her body, discovering the hidden valleys and rising peaks that arched to meet his touch. A low, guttural murmur escaped his lips, a primal sound that vibrated through her core as he pressed her deeper into the yielding mattress. Her own breath hitched, a sharp gasp transforming into a throaty moan as his mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, his tongue tracing a hot, wet path downward. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, a universe contained within the four posts of the bed where every sense was amplified to an almost painful acuity. She could taste the salt on his shoulder, feel the coiled strength in his thighs as he moved agat her with a rhythm that was both demanding and reverent. Fingernails dug into the corded muscles of his back, not in protest but as an anchor, a desperate attempt to hold onto the precipice of a sensation that threatened to shatter her completely. The slide of skin agat slick skin was a whispered promise, a friction that built with each deliberate, powerful thrust, coiling a tight spring of pleasure deep within her belly. Finally, with a cry that was part surrender and part triumph, the tension broke, washing over them in a wave of shuddering, breathless release that left them tangled and spent in the heavy, satisfied quiet.
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