Evilangel
Elsa Jean, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to shimmer with a shared, unspoken heat, a current of anticipation that tightened the space between their bodies. His hands, broad and sure, found the gentle curve of her hips, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles into the soft flesh there. A low, approving murmur escaped him as he felt the yielding pressure of her body agat his, a silent invitation that spoke volumes. The world narrowed to the sensation of her warmth radiating through the thin barrier of fabric, a promise of the intimacy to come. He could feel the subtle shift of her muscles, the way she arched her back just so, pressing herself more firmly into his grasp. Her breath hitched, a soft, sharp sound that was swallowed by the quiet of the room, and her eyes fluttered closed in surrender. Every movement was a languid dance, a building rhythm that echoed the frantic beat of his own heart. The scent of her, clean and wild like rain on a northern forest, filled his senses, intoxicating and pure. This was a deep, primal connection, a claiming and a giving that left them both breathless and utterly consumed.
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