Roccosiffredi
Lottie Magne, Vince Karter Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to shimmer with a palpable heat, thick with the scent of sun-warmed skin and the faint, intoxicating perfume of night-blooming jasmine that drifted through the open window. Her fingers, delicate yet deliberate, traced a slow, burning path down the valley of a spine that arched in a silent, pleading response. A low, guttural murmur escaped parted lips, a sound that was both a question and an answer, lost agat the damp hollow of a throat. Every shift of their entangled limbs was a languid dance, a study in friction and yielding softness that sent tremors through the heavy silence of the room. The moonlight, a pale silver witness, caressed the curve of a shoulder as teeth grazed the sensitive skin there, eliciting a sharp, breathless gasp that was swallowed by a hungry mouth. Muscles coiled and tightened beneath a sheen of perspiration, a testament to the building tension that thrummed between them like a live wire. The world outside ceased to exist, narrowed down to this single, suffocating point of contact where two bodies moved as one, driven by a primal, unspoken rhythm. A name was whispered into the crook of a neck, not as an identifier but as a fervent prayer, a desperate incantation agat the impending climax. And in that suspended moment before the fall, there was only the raw, exquisite agony of anticipation, a universe contained within the space of a shared, shuddering breath.
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