Evilangel
Amaris, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The dimly light of the room seemed to pulse with a life of its own, catching the faint sheen of sweat on his sculpted shoulders as he moved with a predator’s grace. Every flex of his powerful thighs was a deliberate promise, a slow-building rhythm that echoed the quickening beat of my own heart. His gaze, dark and unwavering, held mine as his hands traced the hard planes of his abdomen, fingers dipping below the waistband of his low-slung jeans. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of warm skin and silent anticipation, making each breath a conscious effort. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest, a primal counterpoint to the soft rustle of denim as he pushed the fabric lower. The firelight danced over the raw, masculine beauty of his form, highlighting the tension in his corded forearms and the stark contrast of his pale skin agat the dark shadows. My mouth went dry as he revealed himself fully, the sight both intimidating and utterly captivating, a masterpiece of flesh and desire. He stepped closer, the heat from his body a palpable force that made my skin tingle with the need to be touched, to be claimed. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to this single, intimate performance, a private symphony of visual poetry meant only for my hungry eyes.
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