Roccosiffredi
Eden Ivy, Joss Lescaf Pic(s)

The warm, slick oil trickled slowly down the curve of her spine, a deliberate, heated path his knowing hands were quick to follow. His palms, broad and firm, pressed into the tight knots of her shoulders with a pressure that was both commanding and deeply relieving, melting the tension away like wax beneath a flame. Each stroke was a slow, deliberate exploration, mapping the delicate terrain of her scapulae before his strong fingers found the sensitive hollows at the base of her neck. A low, appreciative sigh escaped her lips as his thumbs circled there, awakening a thrumming energy that pulsed just beneath her skin. The scent of sandalwood and something uniquely masculine filled the air, mingling with the soft sound of his steady breathing just behind her. He worked in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic, kneading the firm muscles of her lower back until her entire body felt pliant and heavy on the table. His touch drifted lower, tracing the pronounced line of her iliac crest with such feather-light precision that a shiver rippled through her. In the quiet dimness of the room, every sensation was amplified—the heat of his skin near hers, the slide of his slickened hands over her hips, the profound sense of surrender. This was more than mere physical manipulation; it was a wordless conversation conducted entirely through the intimate language of touch, building a palpable, aching anticipation for what his next movement would be.
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