Evilangel
Gia Derza, Paige Owens Pic(s)
The room held its breath, a sacred silence broken only by the soft, rhythmic cadence of their shared existence. Her touch was a language of its own, a slow, deliberate mapping of territory both familiar and thrillingly new. Fingertips, slick with anticipation, traced the delicate curve of a lower back, descending with a reverence that made the very air hum. A single, oil-slicked thumb pressed agat the most intimate of gates, not as an invasion, but as a patient, whispered question. The answering sigh was a surrender, a yielding that was less about allowing entry and more about a soul-deep invitation. ide, the world narrowed to a universe of velvet heat, a tight, clinging embrace that pulsed with a life of its own. Every subtle shift, every gentle thrust, was a conversation spoken in the dialect of shuddering nerves and quickening breath. Their foreheads pressed together, a bridge of sweat-slicked skin, as waves of pleasure began to build from that secret, profound core. It was a journey not of taking, but of mutual discovery, culminating in a shared, breathless crest that left them trembling and utterly fused.
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