Evilangel
Freya Dee, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The first touch was not of skin, but of light, a warm golden wash that spilled across the room to caress the curve of a shoulder and the gentle slope of a spine. A soft sigh escaped her lips, a sound that seemed to hang in the air like a promise as she arched slowly, muscles tightening and then melting into a state of luxurious surrender. Her fingers trailed absently through the plush fabric beneath her, each movement a study in deliberate, unhurried grace that made the very atmosphere feel thick with anticipation. The scent of her, a faint whisper of amber and clean skin, began to mingle with the warm, still air, creating an intoxicating perfume that was uniquely hers. A lock of hair, dark as midnight, fell across her cheek, its shadow a stark and beautiful contrast agat the flushed warmth blooming there. When her eyes opened, heavy-lidded and gleaming, they held a depth of knowing that seemed to pull the very focus of the world into their dark centers. Every breath she drew was a visible event, a slow, swelling rise of her chest that spoke of a heart beginning to beat a more primal rhythm. A slight, secretive smile touched the corners of her mouth, a silent acknowledgment of the gathering tension that thrummed just beneath the surface of the quiet moment. This was the beginning, a silent symphony of sensation building towards a crescendo only she could yet hear.
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