Soon Sol established a slow, agonizingly deep, and excruciatingly thorough rhythm.
SLAP. SLIP. SLAP. SLIP.
He wasn't rushing. Every single thrust was a masterpiece of agonizing pleasure. Sol explored every angle of her inner passage, finding every sensitive nerve, every hidden fold, driving into her with the deliberate, unhurried power of an ocean tide crashing against a cliff.
"Ah... ah... Sol... yes... like that..." Veylara moaned, her voice turning soft, fluid, and utterly breathless. She threw her head from side to side on the pillows, completely lost in the rhythm.
Her hands roamed over his back, feeling the hard, sweating ridges of his muscles, her nails leaving white trails along his skin.
"You like how deep I am, Veylara?" Sol whispered, his voice deep and dark in her ear as his hips continued their heavy, rhythmic pounding.
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!
