Nurumassage
Nickey Huntsman, Charles Dera Pic(s)
The heavy silk slid from her shoulders with a whisper, pooling at her waist like a dark, liquid shadow agat the pale luminescence of her skin. His gaze was a physical weight, a slow, deliberate heat that traced the newly revealed curve of her spine, mapping the delicate architecture of her back. A single fingertip, calloused and warm, followed the path his eyes had blazed, igniting a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool evening air. That touch was a question, and the slight, involuntary arch of her body was its silent, yielding answer. He leaned closer, his breath a warm, humid cloud agat the nape of her neck, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and desire. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, the space between them charged with a potent, unspoken promise. She felt the slow, deliberate unfastening of something more than mere fabric, a surrender of a different kind beginning deep within her core. A soft, breathy sigh escaped her lips, a sound that seemed to hang in the stillness, a testament to the crumbling of some internal fortress. In the profound quiet, the only sound was the rustle of expensive cloth as it surrendered completely to the floor, leaving her exquisitely, terrifyingly open to his corrupting, worshipful attention.
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