Evilangel
Lilit Sweet, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of warm skin and anticipation, a palpable energy that clung to the silence. His gaze, dark and heavy with intent, traveled over her form with the deliberate slowness of a connoisseur appraising a masterpiece. A single bead of sweat traced a languid path down the sculpted plane of his back, catching the low light as he moved closer. She felt the heat radiating from his body before he even touched her, a promise of the fire to come. His fingers, calloused and sure, finally made contact, not as a caress but as a claim, skimming the delicate curve of her hip. A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped her lips, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet of the private space. He leaned in, his breath a hot whisper agat her neck that sent shivers cascading down her spine. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, a universe contained within the space between their bodies. Every sense was heightened, every nerve ending screaming with a raw, primal awareness of what was about to unfold.
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