Roccosiffredi
Helena Valle, Lorenzo Viota, Tommy Gold Pic(s)
The golden afternoon light spilled through the tall office windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, suspended fairies. She leaned back agat the polished mahogany desk, the cool, smooth surface a stark contrast to the warmth blooming across her skin. His fingers, strong and deliberate, traced a slow, meandering path from the delicate hollow of her throat down to the frantic pulse at her wrist, each touch a silent promise. A soft, breathy sigh escaped her lips as she arched into his palm, the fine silk of her blouse whispering agat her sensitized flesh. The scent of his cologne, a heady mix of sandalwood and spice, mingled with the faint, floral perfume rising from her own heated skin, creating an intoxicating cloud around them. He lowered his head, his lips finding the sensitive shell of her ear, his warm breath a ghost of a caress that sent shivers cascading down her spine. Her own hands rose, tangling in the dark strands of his hair, pulling him closer, needing to erase every last inch of space between them. The world outside the glass walls ceased to exist, the distant city hum fading into a dull, ignificant thrum beneath the roaring of her own blood. In that suspended moment, there was only the shared heat, the unspoken hunger, and the profound, aching need to be utterly consumed.
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