Roccosiffredi
Sasha Cox, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The first light of the afternoon caught the dust motes dancing around her, a golden haze that seemed to cling to the curve of her shoulder and the gentle slope of her back. She moved with a languid, unspoken confidence, a slow arch of her spine that was both an offering and a challenge. A faint, warm scent of amber and skin rose from her, a perfume that invited closeness. Her fingers traced a path down her own thigh, a deliberate, exploratory touch that spoke of a deep and private knowledge. The whisper of silk sliding agat the floor was the only sound, a soft counterpoint to the quiet rhythm of her breathing. A smile, knowing and faintly wicked, played upon her lips as she tilted her head back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. Every movement was a sentence in a silent story, a narrative of anticipation building in the warm, still air. The fabric of her chemise whispered its final surrender, pooling like liquid moonlight at her feet. In that suspended moment, she was utterly present, a vision of deliberate and breathtaking provocation.
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