Roccosiffredi
Alexa, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with a hushed expectancy, a palpable tension that clung to the skin like a fine mist. His gaze was a physical weight, a slow, deliberate journey that traced the delicate curve of her shoulder before descending along the elegant line of her spine. Every nerve ending seemed to awaken under that silent appraisal, a flush of heat spreading beneath the surface of her skin. She felt the cool whisper of silk as it finally pooled at her feet, leaving her bathed in the warm, golden light that poured from a single overhead lamp. The quiet was profound, broken only by the soft, rhythmic sound of her own breathing and the faint rustle of his clothing as he shifted his position. He moved closer, his shadow falling over her, and the scent of his cologne—clean linen and something darker, like sandalwood—filled her senses. His fingers, when they finally made contact, were not a shock but a completion, a warm, dry pressure agat the small of her back that sent a tremor through her entire frame. It was an unspoken question, a silent command that asked for everything and promised a profound, unraveling truth. In that suspended moment, she was both the artist’s muse and the raw material, awaiting the first defining touch that would shape what was to come.
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