Roccosiffredi
Zaawaadi, Alyson Thor Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of antiseptic and something warmer, a faint, musky perfume that clung to the cool leather of the examination table. His hands, she noted, were not cold as she had feared, but radiated a steady, practiced heat as they began their slow, deliberate journey across the tense plane of her lower back. Each press of his fingertips was a question, and her skin answered with a silent, yielding sigh, the tight knots of anxiety beginning to unravel under his expert pressure. He worked in silence, his breathing a soft counterpoint to the rustle of his crisp white coat, the sound amplifying the intimate quiet of the private space. A low, involuntary murmur escaped her lips as his palms smoothed over the rise of her hips, the friction creating a delicious warmth that seeped deep into her muscles. The clinical setting seemed to dissolve, replaced by a singular focus on the trail of sensation he was painting across her body, a map of awakening nerves. She felt the precise moment his touch shifted from therapeutic to exploratory, a subtle change in pressure that sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to her core. Her own heartbeat became a drum in her ears, loud and frantic, as one hand drifted lower, cupping the curve of her buttock with a possessiveness that was both shocking and deeply desired. In that suspended moment, the line between treatment and seduction blurred into irrelevance, leaving only the promise of a profound and necessary release.
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