Roccosiffredi
Mary Rock, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The heavy velvet curtain of night fell around them, swallowing the world beyond the flickering candlelight that painted their skin in shades of gold and deep umber. His hands, calloused and knowing, traced a slow, deliberate path from the slope of her shoulder down the delicate curve of her spine, a map of pure sensation. A low, appreciative murmur vibrated agat her neck as he buried his face in the fragrance of her hair, a scent of jasmine and warm skin. She arched into his touch, a silent plea for more, her own fingers tangling in the dark coarse hair dusting his chest. Every breath was a shared rhythm, a syncopated beat that quickened as his mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. The air grew thick, charged with the heat radiating from their bodies, a palpable energy that made the fine hairs on her arms stand alert. He shifted, his weight a comforting anchor, and she could feel the powerful, steady thrum of his heart agat her own. A single, slick bead of sweat traced a path between her breasts, a testament to the building, molten heat coiling deep within her core. In this suspended moment, there was only the language of touch, the unspoken promise of a journey just beginning, a perfect, breathless anticipation of what was to come.
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