Evilangel
Tori Montana, Small Hands Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of her anticipation and the faint, clean smell of soap on heated skin. Her breath hitched as a strong, pale shape nudged agat her inner thigh, a promise of the fullness to come. A soft, yielding gasp escaped her lips when the broad, smooth crown began to press istently agat her delicate entrance, stretching her slowly, inexorably open. Every nerve ending awoke, singing a chorus of pure sensation as she was filled, the deep, steady invasion a perfect counterpoint to the frantic flutter of her heart. Her back arched, a silent plea for more, as he sank deeper, the hard, warm length of him reaching places that made her vision blur. The world narrowed to this single, primal connection, the slick, rhythmic friction building a fire in her core. Whimpers of pleasure were muffled agat a muscular shoulder as each deliberate thrust stoked the flames higher, pushing her toward a precipice of exquisite tension. She could feel the powerful muscles in his back bunch and release beneath her grasping fingers, a testament to the controlled force moving within her. Finally, with a shuddering cry, she surrendered completely, her body clenching around him in wave after wave of blinding, convulsive release.
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