Roccosiffredi
Brooklyn Gray, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The humid air clung to his skin like a second layer as he moved through the dimly lit space, the scent of cheap perfume and old whiskey a thick perfume in the back of his throat. His calloused palm met the small of her back, a possessive heat that made her arch tinctively agat the rough denim of his jeans. A low whisper, more vibration than word, rumbled from his chest and traveled through her body, a primal language understood only by the tightening of her own muscles in response. The flickering neon from the street outside cast shifting patterns of crimson and gold across her exposed shoulder, and he watched the play of light on her skin as if it were a map to a hidden treasure. Her fingers tangled in the dark hair at his nape, pulling him down until his lips found the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat, a taste of salt and desperate promise. Every sound was magnified—the ragged intake of her breath, the soft creak of the floorboards under their shifting weight, the distant wail of a siren that seemed to underscore their own urgency. He could feel the yielding softness of her beneath him, a surrender that was also a demand, a silent plea for more of the exquisite friction building between their bodies. The world outside this room, with its rules and its reasons, dissolved into an ignificant hum, replaced by the overwhelming reality of touch and taste and the sharp, sweet ache of anticipation. This was a different kind of frontier, uncharted and wild, and he was a willing explorer lost in its intoxicating, lawless terrain.
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