Evilangel
Mary Rock, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The room held its breath, the air thick with the scent of old paper and anticipation as she stepped into the pool of light. Her movements were a deliberate, fluid dance, each shift of her hips a silent promise whispered to the shadows. The soft rustle of fabric agat her skin was the only sound, a prelude to the heat building beneath the surface. His gaze was a physical weight, tracing the elegant line of her throat down to the gentle swell of her breasts, barely concealed. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips as she let her fingers trail along her own collarbone, feeling the quickening pulse there. She arched her back, a subtle invitation that made the space between them feel charged and electric. The lamplight caressed the curve of her waist, gliding over the smooth plane of her stomach, illuminating a landscape of soft curves and tantalizing hollows. He watched, captivated, as she surrendered to the moment, her eyes closing in a private ecstasy that was both a performance and a genuine release. This was the beginning of an unspoken audition, a test of desire where every sigh and tremble was her most compelling line.
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