Evilangel
Eyla Moore, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The worn leather sighed beneath her shifting weight, a soft exhalation that filled the quiet, intimate space. His gaze, heavy and appraising, traced the elegant line of her throat down to the gentle swell of her breast, a slow journey that made her skin prickle with anticipation. A single, strong finger, warm and deliberate, followed the same path, not quite touching, yet leaving a phantom heat in its wake. She arched into that near-contact, a silent plea for the pressure she craved, her own breath catching as a low murmur of approval rumbled from his chest. The air itself seemed thick, scented with a faint trace of her perfume and the clean, masculine smell of him, a heady combination that clouded rational thought. When his palm finally, fully cupped her, the contact was electric, a jolt of pure sensation that melted the last of her tension into liquid warmth. Her eyes fluttered closed, surrendering to the expert exploration of his hands, which learned the landscape of her body with a sculptor’s focus. Every stroke, every kneading motion, was a promise and a demand, building a slow, coiling heat deep within her core. This was no mere examination; it was a silent conversation of flesh, a prelude to a deeper, more consuming connection.
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