Zerotolerancefilms
Zoe Sparx, Van Wylde Pic(s)
The world narrowed to the press of his body agat mine, a furnace of intent that left no space for hesitation. His hands, possessive and sure, mapped the trembling landscape of my hips, guiding me into a surrender that felt like coming home. A sharp, sweet sting bloomed as he breached my most private self, a gasp catching in my throat only to be swallowed by the humid air. Each deliberate thrust was a lesson in yielding, a rhythmic claiming that unraveled my composure thread by thread. The friction built into a desperate, welcome heat, a low groan rumbling from his chest to vibrate through my very bones. I arched agat him, my fingers scrambling for purchase on the sweat-slicked sheets, every nerve ending alight with sensation. He moved with a primal cadence that spoke of hunger and a strange, fierce tenderness, filling me completely. The boundaries between our bodies dissolved into a single, pulsing entity driven by an ancient, urgent need. In that suspended moment, there was only the raw, exquisite truth of our joining, a crescendo of feeling that promised to shatter us both.
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