Evilangel
Yukki Amey, Sarah Calanthe Pic(s)
The world narrowed to the intimate geography of their joining, a slow, deliberate surrender that began with the yielding pressure of his body agat hers. A sharp, breathless gasp escaped her lips as he breached that final, intimate barrier, a sensation that was at once a sting and a profound, spreading warmth. He held himself there, a statue of pure tension, allowing her flesh to accommodate the delicious, unfamiliar fullness. Then, with a groan that seemed to vibrate from his core into hers, he began to move, a languid, rocking rhythm that was both a claiming and a gift. Each deliberate withdrawal was an exquisite agony of emptiness, each return a deeper, more perfect completion, a friction that ignited a low, smoldering fire in her belly. The air grew thick with the scent of their sweat and the soft, wet sounds of their connection, a primal music that drowned out all other thought. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, her back arching as the pleasure built from a steady thrum into a rising wave, each thrust striking a chord of pure, undiluted sensation deep within her. He shifted his angle slightly, and the feeling transformed, a bright, shocking spark of pleasure that made her cry out, her entire being focused on that single, electrifying point of contact. They moved together in a perfect, desperate syncopation, a dance of mounting pressure that promised a shattering, inevitable release.
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