Roccosiffredi
Martina Smeraldi, Kristof Cale, Vince Karter Pic(s)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the Venetian blinds, striping the polished mahogany desk in bars of molten gold that seemed to pulse with the quiet heat of the day. His fingers, usually so brisk and efficient on the keyboard, now traced a slow, deliberate path up the silk-clad curve of her calf, the whisper of his touch a stark contrast to the sterile hum of the office computer. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips, a sound swallowed by the plush carpet as she leaned back agat the desk’s solid edge, her stockinged feet barely touching the floor. The crisp white of his shirt sleeve brushed agat the delicate skin behind her knee, a fleeting contact that sent a shiver straight to the core of her being. He moved closer, the scent of his expensive cologne and the faint, clean smell of starch mingling with the floral notes of her perfume, creating an intoxicating cloud around them. His other hand came to rest on the small of her back, a firm, possessive pressure that arched her spine ever so slightly, pressing the thin fabric of her blouse agat the cool wood. She could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart through the layers of their clothing, a rhythmic counterpoint to the frantic flutter in her own chest. His lips found the sensitive hollow just below her ear, his breath warm and moist as he murmured something lost to the roaring in her ears, a promise or a command she was already eager to obey. In that suspended moment, the world outside the office door ceased to exist, replaced entirely by the thrilling, clandestine geometry of their bodies converging in the gilded dust motes of the dying light.
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