Roccosiffredi
Elena Vega, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The first light of dawn painted the room in hues of gold and shadow, catching the slow, deliberate arch of her spine as she stretched agat the silken sheets. A soft sigh escaped her lips, a sound that was both surrender and invitation, lost in the quiet hum of the waking world. Her fingers trailed a path down the gentle slope of her neck, over the rise of her collarbone, skin flushing with a warmth that had nothing to do with the morning sun. Each movement was a languid exploration, a private dance of self-awareness that made the very air seem to thicken with anticipation. The delicate scent of night-blooming jasmine clung to her, mingling with the intoxicating aroma of her own awakening desire. She let her head fall back, dark hair cascading like a waterfall of ink agat the pale pillow, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with intent, followed the journey of her own touch as it dipped lower, circling a taut nipple that pebbled tantly under the attention. A shiver, delicious and profound, racked her frame, causing the sheets to whisper secrets agat her thighs. This was the beginning of a ritual, a slow, molten unfurling of sensation where every nerve ending sang a silent, desperate hymn.
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