Evilangel
Francesca Le, Stirling Cooper Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to shimmer with a shared, unspoken hunger, thick with the scent of her perfume and the clean, masculine sweat of the man who now guided her with an unyielding confidence. Her back arched agat the cool silk of the sheets, a soft gasp escaping her lips as his hands, large and knowing, traced the delicate curve of her hip, mapping the territory of her surrender. Every nerve ending felt alive, singing with an electric current that flowed from the possessive pressure of his palm to the very core of her being. She could feel the weight of his gaze upon her, a tangible heat that stripped away all pretense, leaving only raw, aching need in its wake. His mouth found the sensitive hollow of her throat, and the world narrowed to that single point of contact, a searing brand of promise that made her fingers clutch at the bedding. The low, guttural sound he made vibrated through her, a primal language that spoke of possession and a deep, thrilling urgency. Her own breathing became a ragged counterpoint to his, a rhythm building towards an inevitable crescendo as his body aligned with hers, a perfect, demanding fit. In that suspended moment, there was only the exquisite friction of skin agat skin, the building pressure, the silent scream of pleasure held at bay. It was a delicious unraveling, a complete immersion into a sensation so profound it felt like both a homecoming and a conquest.
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