Evilangel
Nelya, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick and warm, carrying the scent of clean skin and a faint, musky anticipation. A single, focused light carved his form from the shadows, gliding over the powerful curve of a shoulder and the dense landscape of his chest. Every breath he took was a slow, deliberate tide, making the hard plane of his stomach rise and fall with a quiet rhythm. My gaze followed the trail of dark hair that led like a promise down past his navel, disappearing where his strong thighs met. He shifted his weight, a subtle roll of his hips that was both unconscious and utterly captivating, a private display of unthinking grace. The low light caught the sheen of perspiration gathering in the hollow of his throat, a tiny, glistening pool I longed to taste. His hands rested on his knees, fingers relaxed yet hinting at a latent strength capable of both gentle exploration and firm command. In the profound silence, the only sound was the soft, wet parting of his lips as he exhaled, a whisper of invitation that echoed in the charged space between us. This was a study in masculine stillness, a portrait of potential energy waiting for the slightest touch to set it into glorious, unrestrained motion.
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