Evilangel
Polly Petrova, Natasha Rios Pic(s)
The first touch was not of skin, but of sight, a slow, deliberate tracing of contours in the dim light that felt more intimate than any casual caress. Her breath hitched as a single fingertip, cool and deliberate, began a languid journey along the sensitive line of her collarbone, a whisper of contact that sent a shiver cascading down her spine. That touch descended, a painter tracing the curve of a masterpiece, pausing to circle the aching peak that had tightened in anticipation of this very moment. A soft sigh escaped her lips, not as a sound but as a surrender, the warmth of an exhale ghosting across the other’s cheek, close enough to taste. The responding lips that met her neck were not hungry, but knowing, savoring the frantic pulse that beat there like a captured bird. Hands, now bolder, mapped the landscape of her back, pressing into the gentle hollows just above the rise of her hips, pulling their bodies into a seamless alignment. The scent of their arousal, musky and sweet like night-blooming jasmine, filled the small space between them, a perfume of pure want. Every movement became a shared language, a slow, building rhythm of pressure and release that spoke of a deep, unspoken understanding. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the slick heat of connected skin and the silent, profound conversation of desire fulfilled.
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