Evilangel
Lya Missy, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The first light of dawn, a pale and hesitant gold, spilled across the rumpled sheets, illuminating the graceful curve of a spine as it descended into shadow. A soft sigh escaped her lips, a sound that seemed to hang in the quiet air, thick with the lingering scent of night-blooming jasmine and warm skin. Her fingers, delicate and sure, traced an idle path along the ide of her own thigh, a whisper of touch that raised goosebumps in its wake. The fabric of the sheet, cool and smooth, whispered a counterpoint to the growing heat radiating from her core, a secret furnace stoked from within. She arched her back slowly, a silent offering to the empty room, every muscle taut with a delicious, unspoken anticipation. A flush began to bloom across her chest, a rosy tide following the path of the sunlight as it crept higher. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with languid desire, fluttered closed, shutting out the world to better focus on the symphony of sensation building ide her. The only sound now was the faint, rhythmic rustle of cotton and the quickening of her own breath, a private drumbeat marking time. In this suspended moment, she was entirely present, a masterpiece of yearning etched in the soft morning glow, utterly consumed by the promise of her own touch.
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