Roccosiffredi
Lexy Gold, Eddy Blackstone Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to pulse with a feverish heat, thick with the scent of salt and reckless youth. Her fingers, trembling not from fear but from a raw, unspoken need, traced the hard line of his jaw before tangling in the damp hair at his nape. A low groan rumbled from his chest, a primal sound that vibrated through her own body as he captured her mouth in a kiss that was less an invitation and more a claiming. The world outside the dim room dissolved into nothing, the only reality the slick slide of skin agat skin, the frantic beat of two hearts hammering in a synchronized rhythm. His hands mapped the delicate architecture of her spine, descending with a deliberate slowness that made her arch agat him, a silent plea for more. Every nerve ending felt exposed, electrified by the scrape of his calloused palms and the hot whisper of his breath agat her throat. The taste of him was dark and addictive, a flavor of summer nights and stolen moments that she knew would linger long after. A sharp, breathless cry escaped her lips as he moved, a perfect friction that built a slow, coiling tension deep within her core. This was a dance on the edge of control, a beautiful, chaotic symphony of sensation where thought ceased and only feeling remained.
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