Evilangel
Christine B, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The first touch was not of skin, but of light, a warm golden wash that spilled across her shoulders like liquid honey, defining the elegant curve of her spine. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips, a sound that seemed to hang in the quiet air, charged with anticipation. She arched slowly, a deliberate, feline stretch that made the muscles in her lower back tighten and then release, a silent testament to gathering focus. The fine hairs on her arms rose as a current of cool air traced the path her body had just vacated, a whisper of contrast agat her growing warmth. Her fingers, slender and sure, drifted down her own side, feeling the subtle shift of rib cage under smooth skin, a map of her own awakening. She turned her head, allowing the light to catch the delicate line of her jaw and the dark pool of her pupil, dilated with intent. The scent of her own perfume, something floral and deep, mingled with the clean smell of cotton from the rumpled sheets beneath her. Every movement was a slow, deliberate punctuation in the hushed narrative of the room, a story told without a single word. Finally, she let her eyelids fall shut, not in avoidance, but in full surrender to the intricate symphony of sensation building within her.
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