Roccosiffredi
Marika Milani, Benny Green, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The air in the small, cluttered office was thick with the scent of cheap cologne and expensive ambition, a heady mixture that clung to the back of the throat. He watched her from across the desk, his gaze a slow, deliberate caress that started at the elegant curve of her neck and traveled down to where her silk blouse strained agat a single, tempting button. A knowing smile played upon her lips, a silent promise exchanged in the space between heartbeats as she leaned forward, allowing the fabric to gape just enough to reveal the shadowed valley of her cleavage. The rustle of her skirt as she shifted was a whisper agat the tense silence, a sound more intimate than any spoken word. His fingers, resting on the wooden surface, twitched with a suppressed need to reach out and trace the line of her jaw, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his touch. She met his intense stare without flinching, her eyes dark pools of invitation, reflecting the dim light and a shared, unspoken conspiracy. The world outside the dusty window seemed to fade into irrelevance, the distant hum of the city a dull echo compared to the roaring pulse in his ears. Every movement was a calculated dance, a seduction built not on passion alone but on the thrilling edge of mutual deception. In that charged moment, the only real thing was the electric current arcing between them, a palpable force promising a culmination as dangerous as it was desired.
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