Evilangel
Jane Wilde, Prince Yahshua, Jax Slayher Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to hum with a palpable energy, thick with the scent of warm skin and whispered confidences. His hands, broad and sure, traced a slow cartography of desire along the curve of her spine, each touch a silent promise that made her breath catch. She arched into him, a soft sigh escaping her lips as his mouth found the sensitive hollow of her throat, tasting the salt of her anticipation. The world outside their intimate sphere dissolved into a distant murmur, irrelevant agat the roaring tide of sensation building between them. Fingertips, calloused yet impossibly gentle, explored the yielding softness of her inner thigh, igniting a trail of fire that spread to her very core. The low, guttural sound he made vibrated through her, a primal language that spoke of urgent, mutual need. Her own hands tangled in the dark, coarse curls of his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, as if to fuse their very beings together. Every nerve ending felt alive, strung taut like a wire, singing with the exquisite friction of their bodies moving in a timeless rhythm. In that suspended moment, there was only the shared heat, the slick slide of skin on skin, and the profound, shuddering release that shattered the night into a million glittering fragments.
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