Evilangel
Renata Fox, Marica Chanelle, Raul Costa Pic(s)
The humid air clung to their young skin like a second layer, charged with the frantic energy of rebellion. His calloused fingers, smelling faintly of gasoline and summer nights, traced a slow, deliberate path from the sharp angle of her jaw down the delicate column of her throat. A shuddering breath escaped her lips, a sound swallowed by the thrumming bassline leaking from a distant car stereo. She arched into his touch, her own nails digging crescent moons into the worn leather of the car seat beneath them. The world outside the fogged windows dissolved into an indistinct blur of neon and shadow, irrelevant to the universe contained within this stolen moment. He lowered his mouth to the frantic pulse at the base of her neck, his tongue a brand of salt and heat agat her feverish skin. Every nerve ending felt raw and exposed, singing with a dangerous, exhilarating current that promised both ruin and rapture. The low growl that rumbled in his chest vibrated through her own, a primal sound that spoke of untamed tincts and a complete lack of inhibition. In this chaotic symphony of sensation, there was only the sharp, aching need and the intoxicating freedom of letting go.
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