Roccosiffredi
Aria Logan, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The light from the projector painted shifting patterns across her skin, a silent cinema playing upon the gentle curve of her shoulder. His fingers, tracing the path of a flickering shadow, discovered the warm, living silk beneath, a landscape more compelling than any script. A low, appreciative hum vibrated in his chest, a sound felt more than heard, as he leaned in to taste the salt and ambition on her neck. Her breath hitched, a soft, surrendering sound that spoke of auditions passed and roles yet to be won, a vulnerability reserved for this private stage. The scent of her, a complex bouquet of faint perfume and pure adrenaline, filled the space between them, an intoxicating promise. She arched into his touch, a deliberate, graceful movement learned from countless hours under the lights, now an tinctive offering. His palm slid down the elegant line of her spine, each vertebra a delicate pearl surrendered to his possession, mapping a territory of pure sensation. The world outside, with its clamoring demands and endless possibilities, dissolved into the quiet darkness of the room, irrelevant and forgotten. In this hushed sanctuary, the only part she needed to play was her own true self, trembling and alive beneath his worshipful hands.
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