Evilangel
Paisley Bennett, Mick Blue Pic(s)
The young woman arched her back, a soft gasp escaping her lips as a new, thrilling pressure began to bloom deep within her. Her fingers tightened their grip on the rumpled sheets, the cotton soft and cool agat her heated skin. Every nerve ending seemed to converge on that single, intimate point of contact, a slow, deliberate invasion that made her breath catch. She could feel the delicate, involuntary flutter of her own body adjusting, welcoming the gradual, stretching fullness that promised such profound pleasure. A bead of sweat traced a path down her spine, following the delicate curve that led to where their bodies joined. The sensation was a slow-building crescendo, a symphony of tight heat and yielding softness that made her toes curl agat the mattress. With each gentle, persistent movement, a wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy radiated outward, warming her from the ide. Her world narrowed to this singular, consuming feeling, a perfect fusion of vulnerability and power. A low, throaty moan was her only confession, a sound swallowed by the heavy, fragrant air of the room.
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