Evilangel
Paige Owens, Ramon Nomar Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of our exertion, a primal perfume of sweat and desire. His hands, strong and possessive, gripped the generous curve of my hips, anchoring me as he drove himself deeper with a rhythm that was both punishing and reverent. Each powerful thrust sent shivers of exquisite pleasure radiating from my core, a building pressure that threatened to shatter my very being. I could feel the slick heat of my own arousal coating my inner thighs, a testament to the raw intensity of our connection. A low, guttural moan escaped my lips as the sensation crested, my body tensing and trembling on the precipice of an unimaginable release. Then it broke, a torrential flood of ecstasy that wracked my frame, my muscles clenching and releasing in uncontrollable waves of liquid surrender. He groaned, a deep, satisfied sound, as he felt the warm cascade, his own pace becoming frantic and final. The fullness within me seemed to amplify the convulsions, each pulse of his climax syncing perfectly with the aftershocks of my own. We collapsed together, breathless and slick, into the damp sheets, utterly spent and completely fused.
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