Evilangel
Chanel Grey, Markus Dupree Pic(s)
The room was filled with the humid scent of exertion, a primal perfume that clung to the air as her body surrendered to the overwhelming tide of sensation. Each deep, deliberate thrust coaxed a fresh, shuddering gasp from her lips, her back arching into a perfect curve of abandon agat the damp sheets. The intimate ring of muscle, once tightly furled, had blossomed open under persistent, gentle pressure, a yielding flower welcoming the invading warmth. Her entire world narrowed to the profound feeling of being filled, stretched, and utterly possessed, a delicious friction that ignited sparks behind her clenched eyelids. A tremor began deep within her core, a gathering storm of pleasure that made her thighs quake and her toes curl helplessly. Then, with a sharp, guttural cry that was part surprise and part triumph, the dam broke; a hot, clear rush of release flooded from her, soaking the tangled linen beneath her hips. The liquid warmth spread across her skin, a shocking contrast to the cool air, a tangible proof of her absolute surrender to the moment. Waves of aftershock rippled through her, each one softer than the last, leaving her boneless and breathless in the aftermath. She lay there, completely open and spent, a masterpiece of satisfied exhaustion painted in the dim light.
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