Roccosiffredi
Bella Rico, Joss Lescaf Pic(s)
The room exhaled the scent of warm sandalwood as his palms, slick with oil heated to the precise temperature of blood, began their slow pilgrimage across the landscape of my back. Each stroke was a deliberate, unhurried language, translating tension into liquid ease as his thumbs found the stubborn constellations of knots nestled along my spine. My breath hitched, then deepened into a low sigh that seemed to vibrate through the table as his fingers fanned out, pressing with a knowing pressure that melted muscle into pliant clay. He worked in a rhythm that felt ancient, his touch neither asking nor taking, but simply being, a presence that erased the boundary between his hands and my skin. A low, resonant hum started in his chest, a sound felt more than heard, its vibration traveling through his wrists and into the very marrow of my bones. My awareness narrowed to the path of heat he painted, a glowing trail that awakened every dormant nerve ending to a state of humming alertness. When his knuckles traced the delicate wings of my shoulder blades, a shiver of pure, unadulterated pleasure cascaded down to the small of my back, pooling low in my belly. The world beyond the dim lamplight ceased to exist, time stretching and softening like taffy under the hypnotic cadence of his ministrations. In that suspended moment, I was nothing but sensation, a vessel being filled with a golden, weightless warmth that promised a quiet, profound unraveling.
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