Evilangel
Everly Haze, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken with a palpable heat, charged with the scent of sweat and raw anticipation. Her body was a landscape of surrender, every curve and hollow offered in a silent, pleading invitation. A single, glistening bead of moisture traced a path down the small of her back, a tiny river mapping its way toward the epicenter of her need. He watched, his gaze a physical weight upon her, as she arched into the emptiness, a low moan escaping her parted lips. The first touch was not gentle, but a claiming pressure that made her gasp and shudder, her inner muscles fluttering in a frantic welcome. Each deliberate, slow thrust was a lesson in exquisite friction, a building rhythm that pushed her toward a precipice of pure sensation. Her world narrowed to this singular, consuming connection, the feeling of being utterly filled and stretched beyond previous limits. A guttural cry was torn from her throat as the climax crashed over her, a wave of convulsing pleasure that left her trembling and exposed. In the heavy, breathless silence that followed, the only sound was the soft, satisfied sigh of completion, a testament to the journey’s end.
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