Diabolic
Kendra Spade, Lucas Frost Pic(s)
The room was steeped in the warm, earthy scent of sandalwood oil, a fragrant haze that clung to the air as his strong, knowing hands began their slow, deliberate journey across the landscape of her back. Each stroke was a language of its own, a deep, gliding pressure that spoke of untold patience and an intimate understanding of the body’s secret geography. His palms, heated from the friction of his work, molded perfectly to the gentle curve of her spine, sinking into the yielding flesh with a possessive certainty that made her breath catch. Fingertips traced the delicate wings of her shoulder blades, exploring the subtle ridges and valleys with a touch so focused it felt like a form of worship. A low, appreciative murmur escaped him as he worked the tension from her muscles, the sound a vibration that seemed to travel from his chest directly into her core. She surrendered completely, her awareness narrowing to the exquisite sensation of skin sliding agat skin, a slick, seamless connection that blurred all boundaries. The rhythm of his movements became a primal cadence, a steady, building pressure that promised a release more profound than mere physical relief. In the hushed stillness, broken only by their synchronized breathing, every glide of his hands felt like a deliberate, unspoken promise of pleasure yet to come. This was a silent dialogue of touch, an escalating dance where the only goal was the shared, shuddering peak of sensation.
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