Evilangel
Becky Bonbon, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick and warm, carrying the faint, sweet scent of powdered sugar and something far more intoxicating. A single, low-wattage bulb cast a honeyed glow across her skin, illuminating the gentle curve of her shoulder as she shifted her weight. Her fingers, tipped with a delicate sheen, traced a slow, deliberate path down her own collarbone, a silent exploration of yielding flesh. A soft sigh escaped her lips, parting them just enough to suggest a taste of the warmth gathering within. The fabric of her chemise, a whisper-thin silk, slid from her frame with a hushed rustle, pooling like liquid cream at the base of the plush divan. Every movement was a languid promise, a study in controlled anticipation that made the very atmosphere hum. The light caught the dewy sheen beginning to form in the hollow of her throat, a tiny, glistening testament to the heat building beneath the surface. She arched her back, a slow, sinuous stretch that pulled the skin taut over her ribs, revealing the graceful architecture of her form. In that suspended moment, the entire world narrowed to the sight of her, a confection of desire slowly, exquisitely, coming undone.
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