Evilangel
Monica Santhiago, Angel Lima, Jazz Duro Pic(s)
The first touch was a spark agat the cool night air, a shiver that began at the base of her spine and fanned out like wings. His lips found the delicate curve of her shoulder, a slow, deliberate exploration that tasted of salt and anticipation, while another pair of hands, softer, traced the sensitive line of her hip. The world narrowed to the symphony of shared breath, the rustle of fabric surrendering to skin, the low murmur of approval that vibrated through her. Fingers, calloused and smooth in turn, charted a course across her stomach, mapping constellations of desire that made her arch into the dual attention. A mouth closed over one peaked nipple, a hot, wet suction that drew a gasp from her lips, which were immediately captured by another’s kiss, deep and searching. She was the center of a gentle storm, a nexus of sensation where every caress amplified the next, building a rhythm as ancient as the tides. The scent of their mingled arousal filled the space, a heady perfume of musk and warmth that promised utter abandon. In this confluence of bodies, she felt not divided but multiplied, her pleasure echoing and reflecting between them in an endless, shimmering loop. It was a celestial alignment of flesh and yearning, a perfect, weightless moment where she was both worshipped and worshipper, completely and gloriously unbound.
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