Evilangel
Angelika Grays, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The first light of dawn, a pale and hesitant gold, spilled across the rumpled sheets, catching the fine dust motes dancing in the still air like tiny, suspended stars. Her silhouette emerged from the shadows, a study in soft curves and languid grace, the arch of her back a perfect, elegant bow agat the pillows. A single bead of perspiration traced a slow, deliberate path from the hollow of her throat, following the delicate slope of her collarbone before disappearing into the warm valley between her breasts. The scent of her skin, a heady mixture of night-blooming jasmine and pure, heated woman, filled the room with an intoxicating perfume that clung to everything it touched. His gaze was a physical caress, moving with unhurried reverence over the landscape of her body, memorizing the gentle swell of her hip, the tender ide of her thigh. A low, contented sigh escaped her lips, not quite a word but a sound of profound satisfaction that vibrated in the quiet space between them. The memory of their shared passion was a tangible warmth lingering on her skin, a flush that painted her from chest to cheeks in a rosy, living watercolor. His fingers, calloused yet infinitely gentle, followed the path his eyes had blazed, his touch as light as a whisper yet sparking fresh shivers of anticipation. In that suspended moment, the world outside ceased to exist, the only reality being the shared heat, the unspoken language of glances, and the profound, echoing silence that was richer than any symphony.
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