Devilsfilm
Daisy Stone, Charles Dera Pic(s)
The air, thick with the scent of warm skin and hay, clung to them as he guided her with a firm, knowing hand. Her back arched agat the rough-hewn wood of the stall, a soft gasp escaping her lips as his mouth found the delicate hollow of her throat. The worn leather of his chaps whispered agat her bare thighs, a coarse counterpoint to the smooth heat of his palm sliding up her ribcage. She could feel the powerful rhythm of his heartbeat thrumming through her own chest, a primal drumbeat syncing their movements. Her fingers tangled in the dark hair at his nape, pulling him closer as his teeth grazed the swell of her breast, a sharp, delicious sting that made her toes curl in the dust. The world narrowed to this shadowy corner, to the slick slide of their bodies moving in a slow, deliberate dance of possession. A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her as his hips pressed forward, a promise of the raw power held in check. Her own answering moan was swallowed by his kiss, a deep, claiming exploration that tasted of salt and want. In that suspended moment, every nerve ending was alight, humming with the exquisite tension of a bowstring drawn taut, awaiting the release that would shatter the stillness.
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