Evilangel
Marika Milani, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The soft glow of the lamplight cast long, dancing shadows across the room, illuminating the gentle curve of her spine as she arched agat the pillows. His hands, warm and sure, traced a slow, deliberate path from the delicate hollow of her throat down to the swell of her hip, each touch sparking a trail of fire across her skin. She could feel the steady, rhythmic pressure building deep within, a low thrum that echoed the frantic beating of her heart. A soft sigh escaped her lips, mingling with the hushed, ragged sound of his breathing close to her ear. The world narrowed to this single, shared space, filled with the scent of warm skin and the faint, musky perfume of their desire. Every nerve ending felt alive, hyper-aware of the slick heat where their bodies joined in a perfect, primal rhythm. Her fingers tangled in the damp sheets, gripping tight as a wave of pleasure began to crest, threatening to pull her under its powerful, inexorable tide. The intensity in his gaze held her captive, a silent promise of the release that was moments away, a shared precipice they were about to leap from together. And in that final, breathless second before the fall, everything was pure, unthinking sensation, a universe contained within the touch of skin on skin.
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