Evilangel
Olivia Sin, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick and warm, carrying the scent of clean skin and quiet anticipation. His hands, broad and sure, began a slow exploration, mapping the subtle landscape of her body with a sculptor’s reverence. Each touch was a deliberate question, his palms learning the gentle curve of her spine, the delicate architecture of her shoulder blades. A soft sigh escaped her lips as his fingers traced the sensitive hollow just above her collarbone, a silent language of discovery passing between them. He shifted closer, the heat of his chest radiating agat her back, a solid presence that promised both shelter and surrender. His breath was a warm caress agat her neck, stirring the fine hairs there as his thumbs pressed in a slow, circular rhythm into the tense muscles of her lower back. She felt herself melting into his touch, every nerve ending awakening to the deliberate, patient pressure of his kneading palms. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, a fluid exchange of trust and burgeoning desire that needed no words. In the heavy silence, their shared rhythm built, a palpable current of connection that was both tender and intensely consuming.
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