Roccosiffredi
Kiara Lord, Yves Morgan, Jack Rippher Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of antiseptic and something warmer, a faint, musky perfume of anticipation. His hands, cool from the gel he had just smoothed over his palms, found the small of her back, a deliberate pressure that made her arch tinctively agat the sterile paper covering the examination table. Each slow, circular stroke of his fingers was a study in contrast, the clinical chill of the gel giving way to the radiating heat of her skin beneath. He worked in silence, his focus absolute, tracing the delicate architecture of her spine with a touch that was both diagnostic and deeply intimate. A low, approving hum vibrated in his chest, a sound felt more than heard, as his thumbs pressed into the tight knots of tension along her shoulders. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the expert rhythm, every nerve ending awakening to the possessive glide of his skin agat hers. The rustle of his starched white coat was the only whisper of their professional charade, a fragile barrier dissolving with every passing second. His breath ghosted across her neck, a warm, damp promise that contradicted the room’s sterile brightness, and she felt a shudder of pure, undiluted desire course through her. This was no simple therapy; it was a silent, deliberate unraveling, a secret ritual where healing and hunger became one and the same.
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