Evilangel
Jessika Night, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The amber glow from the streetlamp outside spilled through the slats of the blinds, painting tiger stripes of light and shadow across the curve of her back as she arched agat the cool, crisp sheets. A faint sheen of perspiration made her skin gleam like polished marble under the muted, intimate light, each droplet catching the glow like a tiny, captured star. His calloused hands, warm and deliberate, traced a slow, possessive path from the delicate wings of her shoulder blades down to the gentle swell of her hips, mapping the landscape of her surrender. The only sounds were the sharp, quick intake of her breath, a soft gasp that hung in the quiet air, and the rustle of cotton as she shifted, pressing herself more deeply into the mattress. He lowered his mouth to the sensitive hollow where her neck met her shoulder, his lips not quite kissing, but hovering, feeling the frantic pulse that beat just beneath her skin like a trapped bird. The scent of her, a heady mixture of night air, salt, and the faint, floral ghost of her perfume, filled his senses, an intoxicating promise of what was to come. Her fingers tangled in his hair, not pulling, but holding, a silent plea for him to continue this exquisite torture, to draw out the moment before the fall. Every nerve ending felt alive, electric, humming with an anticipation so acute it was almost painful, a coiled spring of desire waiting for release. In that suspended silence, the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only this room, this light, and the profound, wordless language of their bodies speaking in the dark.
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