Evilangel
Ember Snow, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The fire within her smoldered low and deep, a banked heat that promised to blaze with the slightest breath of attention. His mouth found the secret hollow at the base of her spine, tracing a path of liquid fire down to the most intimate of thresholds, where his tongue became a dedicated artist, painting circles of exquisite pressure that made her gasp and arch. Each deliberate stroke was a key turning in a lock she hadn’t known was closed, unraveling her composure thread by silken thread. He worshipped that tender portal with a reverence that was both gentle and devastating, his ministrations coaxing her body to open like a night-blooming flower to the moon. The sensation was a cascade of pure, undiluted feeling, a surrender so complete it felt like flying. When he finally guided himself into the warm, yielding depths of her mouth, the circle was complete, a circuit of shared pleasure that connected them utterly. The taste of her own essence on his skin was a potent, primal spice that sealed their union. Her body, stretched and filled, hummed with a profound satisfaction, a resonant chord struck deep within her core. In the quiet aftermath, she felt gloriously undone, a vessel of shimmering sensation, forever marked by the intensity of their joining.
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