Evilangel
Alexis Fawx, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The room was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, casting dancing shadows across her skin as she knelt before him, her experienced hands guiding his length into the warmth of her mouth with practiced reverence. Her lips moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each motion a testament to years of knowing exactly how to draw pleasure from a man’s body. He watched the candlelight catch the silver strands in her hair, a mark of maturity that only heightened her allure as she took him deeper, her throat relaxing in welcome surrender. Then his hands found her hips, turning her with gentle authority until she was bent over the velvet couch, her back arched in perfect invitation. He entered her from behind, a slow, claiming thrust that made her gasp agat the cushions, her fingers clutching the fabric as he filled her completely. The air thickened with their mingled breaths and the scent of her perfume, each movement a synchronized dance of give and take that left them both trembling. She could feel every inch of him moving within her, a steady, deep rhythm that built like a rising tide, while her mouth still remembered the taste of him, the memory fueling her own rising need. Their bodies spoke a language older than words, a primal dialogue of thrust and surrender, of control willingly relinquished and pleasure fiercely given. In that suspended moment, nothing existed but the shared heat of their connection, the slick friction of skin on skin, and the silent promise of release trembling on the edge of their joined breaths.
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