Evilangel
Sybil, Raul Costa Pic(s)
The golden afternoon light spilled through the blinds, painting stripes of warmth across the hardwood floor where he stood, a silhouette of coiled potential. Her breath hitched as his gaze, heavy and appraising, traveled the length of her form, making her skin prickle with a delicious, anticipatory heat. The air itself grew thick, charged with the unspoken promise of what was to come, tasting of salt and something uniquely, intoxicatingly him. A single, deliberate step forward closed the distance, his shadow enveloping her, a tangible pressure that made her knees feel weak. His fingers, when they finally brushed agat her jaw, were calloused yet impossibly gentle, a contrast that sent a shiver cascading down her spine. The low, approving murmur that rumbled from his chest vibrated through her, a primal sound that bypassed thought and spoke directly to her core. She could feel the solid strength of his thigh pressing agat hers, a firm anchor in the swirling vertigo of sensation, grounding her even as it promised to sweep her away. Every nerve ending awoke, singing a silent, desperate song for more of his touch, for the friction and release his presence promised. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to this room, to the scent of his skin and the profound, aching need building between them, a story about to be written not with words, but with sensation.
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