Roccosiffredi
Jane Wilde, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The humid air clung to his skin like a second layer, thick with the scent of jasmine and distant saltwater, a stark contrast to the dry, familiar winds of home. Her fingers, cool and deliberate, traced the hard line of his jaw, a silent question in the touch that made his breath catch. He could feel the slow, steady beat of her heart where his palm rested agat the small of her back, a rhythm that seemed to sync with the distant, muffled bass from a club down the street. The silk of her slip whispered agat his rough workman’s hands as he pulled her closer, the friction a tiny, electric shock in the still night. A low groan escaped him when she arched into his body, her lips finding the pulse point at the base of his throat, tasting of sweet wine and promise. The city lights bled around the edges of the blinds, painting shifting patterns of gold across the sweat-sheened planes of his chest and her bare shoulders. Every sense was heightened, from the taste of her skin to the sound of her soft, shuddering sigh as his hands explored the warm, yielding curve of her hip. This was a new kind of language, spoken not with words but with the press of flesh and the shared, mounting heat that pushed all thought from his mind. In that anonymous room, surrounded by the alien sounds of a foreign metropolis, he discovered a territory more intoxicating and vast than any he had ever crossed.
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