Evilangel
Zaawaadi, Erik Everhard, Vince Karter Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to shimmer with the heat of his exertion, a fine mist of sweat glistening across the powerful, sun-bronzed contours of his back. Each corded muscle in his shoulders and arms tightened and released with a raw, untamed rhythm, a physical poetry of pure force. A low, guttural sound rumbled deep within his chest, escaping as a heated breath agat skin, more felt than heard. The scent of leather, dust, and the sharp, clean aroma of male vitality filled the space, an intoxicating perfume of primal energy. His movements were not gentle but possessed a fierce, consuming grace, each thrust a declaration of absolute possession. Fingertips dug into yielding flesh, not with cruelty, but with an urgent need to anchor this wild, fleeting moment. The world narrowed to the slick, feverish heat where their bodies met, a single, pulsating point of contact that burned away all thought. Every nerve ending sang a chorus of pure sensation, a crescendo building with the relentless, driving pace he set. It was a tempest of feeling, a surrender to a power as ancient and elemental as the Iberian earth from which his spirit seemed forged.
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