Whiteghetto
Gabriela Castellari, Yago Ribeiro Pic(s)
The room was thick with the scent of jasmine and sweat, a heady perfume that clung to the air like a promise. She arched her back agat the silk sheets, her moan a low, throaty sound that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. His hands, large and possessive, mapped the delicate landscape of her hips, each touch a bold claim of territory. From the shadowed corner, a pair of eyes watched, drinking in the sight of her surrender, a silent witness to a pleasure he was not meant to give. Her fingers tangled in her lover’s dark hair, pulling him closer as his mouth found the frantic pulse at her throat. The sight was a exquisite torment, a beautiful violation of a sacred trust that made his own breath catch. Every sigh from her lips, every shudder that wracked her frame, was a testament to his own absence from this intimate stage. The rhythmic creak of the bed became a relentless drumbeat, underscoring the raw, unfiltered passion unfolding before him. He remained there, utterly captivated and completely shattered, as the scene reached its feverish, breathless peak.
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