Evilangel
Cherry Kiss, Zaawaadi, Malena Nazionale, Mike Chapman, Yves Morgan, Oscar Batty Pic(s)
The heavy oak door swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a silhouette haloed by the dim hallway light, a figure of impossible grace and latent power. His scent arrived first, a complex tapestry of sandalwood and night air that coiled into the room, displacing the ordinary and filling my lungs with something wild and unknown. The sharp angle of his jaw was a dark promise agat the soft glow, his eyes holding a smolder that seemed to drink the very light from the space between us. He moved with a predator’s quiet confidence, each step a deliberate compression of the floorboards that echoed the sudden, frantic rhythm of my own heart. A single, strong hand rose, not to touch me, but to hover near my cheek, the heat of his skin radiating a palpable energy that made my flesh prickle in anticipation. The silence was a thick, velvet blanket, woven with the unspoken tension of his intent and the sharp, sweet ache of my surrender. I could taste the electricity on my tongue, a metallic tang of desire as his gaze traveled over me, leaving a trail of invisible fire in its wake. His lips parted, not in speech, but in a slow, deliberate breath that I felt answer deep within my own body, a primal call. This was no simple arrival; it was an occupation, a claiming of the atmosphere that left me breathless and utterly consumed by his presence.
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