Evilangel
Charly Summer, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun poured through the window, casting long, golden shadows that danced across their intertwined bodies. Her mouth was a study in devotion, a warm, wet haven of exquisite pressure that made his entire world shrink to the single point of connection. Each deliberate, languid motion of her tongue was a promise, a slow-building incantation that coiled tension deep within his core. He could feel the shudder starting in his thighs, a gathering storm of sensation that threatened to break his composure entirely. When he could bear the sweet torment no longer, he guided her onto her back, the sight of her flushed skin agat the rumpled sheets a vision of pure desire. He entered her with a single, fluid stroke, a perfect, gasping union that silenced everything but the sound of their ragged breathing. The rhythm they found was ancient and tinctual, a pounding, urgent cadence that drove them both toward the precipice. Her climax washed over her first, a series of tight, pulsing waves that milked him relentlessly, pulling his own release from him in a raw, guttural cry. They collapsed together, slick with sweat, the humid summer air thick with the scent of their passion, utterly spent and completely fused.
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