Burningangel
Mackenzie Moss, Small Hands Pic(s)
The air crackled with a raw energy, thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as a powerful hand tangled in her hair, arching her neck back in a vulnerable curve. Every nerve ending screamed to life under the demanding pressure of a body pinning her agat the unyielding surface, the cold hardness a stark contrast to the feverish heat of her own skin. A low, guttural command vibrated agat her ear, its meaning felt more than understood, sending a shiver of pure submission down her spine. The sharp, stinging impact on her flesh bloomed into a deep, radiating warmth that pooled low in her belly, a paradoxical pleasure born from the intensity of the moment. Her world narrowed to the physical symphony of strain and release, the sound of ragged breathing mixing with the creak of stressed leather. Fingernails dug into a muscular back, not in protest but as an anchor, a desperate claim on the whirlwind consuming her. Each forceful thrust was a punctuation mark in a primal dialogue, a relentless rhythm that eroded all thought and left only sensation in its wake. Finally, a broken cry was torn from her throat, not of pain but of surrender, as the overwhelming crescendo of feeling shattered her completely.
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