Roccosiffredi
Diane Chrystall, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The first touch was not of skin, but of light, a slow cascade of gold that poured over the curve of a shoulder, illuminating the delicate landscape of her collarbone. A breath, held then released, stirred the air between them, a silent prelude to the deliberate journey of a hand. Fingertips, cool at first, traced the invisible line of her spine, a whisper of contact that caused a shiver to ripple outwards like a stone dropped into still water. The scent of her, warm skin and faint jasmine, filled his senses as he leaned closer, his lips finding the sensitive hollow where her neck met her shoulder. A soft sound escaped her, part sigh and part surrender, as his palm slid around to cradle the gentle weight of her breast, his thumb circling a peak that hardened tantly to his touch. The world narrowed to this single room, to the texture of linen under his other hand and the heat blooming beneath her own skin. She arched into him, a fluid, unspoken consent that brought their bodies into full alignment, the length of him a firm pressure agat the small of her back. Every movement was languid, deliberate, a slow unraveling of restraint as clothing became a forgotten barrier. In the quiet, the only sounds were the rustle of fabric yielding and the shared, deepening rhythm of their breath becoming one.
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