Evilangel
Diane Chrystall, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The golden afternoon light spilled through the window, catching the faint dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, suspended fairies. She let the silk of her robe slip from her shoulders, a whisper of fabric pooling at her feet on the cool wooden floor. A slow, deliberate breath filled her lungs as the sun’s warmth caressed her skin, tracing the delicate curve of her collarbone and the gentle slope of her back. Her fingers trailed upwards, a soft exploration over the smooth plane of her stomach, feeling the subtle, anticipatory tremor that ran beneath the surface. She arched into the touch, a silent sigh escaping her lips as the heat began to bloom deep within, a low, smoldering fire. Every nerve ending seemed to awaken, hyper-aware of the humid air kissing her flesh, the almost imperceptible breeze from the open window teasing the fine hairs on her arms. Closing her eyes, she surrendered to the sensation, a wave of pure, unadulterated feeling cresting through her, leaving a trail of prickling awareness in its wake. It was a moment of profound stillness and immense motion, a private universe contained within the four walls, where the only sound was the frantic, rhythmic drumming of her own heart. In that suspended silence, she was utterly, completely alive, every inch of her a landscape of awakening desire.
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