Evilangel
Maya Woulfe, Michael Stefano Pic(s)
A sudden tremor seized her body, a silent, powerful convulsion that arched her spine away from the damp sheets as a guttural cry was torn from her throat. Her head fell back, exposing the elegant line of her neck, every muscle taut with the force of the climax crashing through her. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of salt and sex and her own unique, musky perfume. A warm, liquid release followed the shuddering peak, not a trickle but a generous, pearlescent arc that caught the low light like scattered moonlight. It landed upon her skin with a soft, warm spatter, tracing glistening paths over closed eyelids and flushed cheeks. Each droplet was a testament to her abandon, a silken sheen that painted her features with the evidence of pure, unadulterated pleasure. She breathed in ragged, deep gasps, the aftermath humming through her ve like a fading electric current. A slow, sated smile touched her lips as she lay there, gloriously marked and utterly spent. The sensation was one of profound completion, a perfect, shimmering moment suspended in the humid, quiet dark.
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