Roccosiffredi
Kate Quinn, Joss Lescaf Pic(s)
The warm, slick oil trickled slowly down the spine’s delicate valley before his palms, broad and knowing, began their deliberate journey. Each stroke was a language of its own, translating tension into liquid heat that pooled deep within the muscles. His thumbs pressed with an intuitive certainty into the knots along the shoulders, a firm, circling pressure that coaxed a low, shuddering sigh from somewhere primal. The scent of sandalwood and something uniquely male filled the air, thick and intoxicating with every deep, measured breath. Fingertips traced the subtle architecture of the ribs, a feather-light exploration that made the skin prickle with acute awareness. The world beyond the dim room, with its soft linen and hushed atmosphere, dissolved into an ignificant murmur. A deep, resonant warmth spread outward from his touch, seeping into the very marrow, melting all resistance into a state of pliant surrender. Every nerve ending seemed to awaken, singing a silent, urgent hymn as his hands glided over the small of the back with a possessive grace. It was a slow, meticulous unraveling, a building wave of sensation that promised a release as inevitable as the tide.
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