Evilangel
Angel Rivas, Lutro, Ste Axe Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the dusty warehouse window, catching the faint shimmer of perspiration on her lower back as she arched, a slow, deliberate curve of spine and muscle. His calloused hands, smelling of leather and warm skin, settled on her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above the waistband of her lace panties. A low, appreciative groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her frame as she pressed herself back agat the hard ridge of his jeans. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of their mingled arousal and the distant, metallic tang of the city. She let her head fall back agat his shoulder, her lips parting in a silent gasp as one of his hands slid around to her stomach, splaying possessively across her abdomen, holding her flush agat him. The rough denim of his clothing was a stark, thrilling contrast to the smooth, heated silk of her skin, every shift and movement sending new currents of electricity sparking along her nerves. Her breath hitched, becoming shallow pants that fogged the air in the cooling room, her own fingers digging into the solid muscle of his thighs for purchase. In the growing shadows, the only sounds were the rustle of fabric, the wet meeting of mouths, and the raw, unvarnished whispers of need that passed between them, a language all their own. This was a world reduced to sensation, to the primal dance of give and take, where every touch was a promise and every sigh a surrender to the gathering storm.
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