Roccosiffredi
Kris The Foxx, Vince Karter Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the sharp, clean aroma of polished mahogany, a stark contrast to the raw tension simmering just beneath the surface. His gaze, heavy and deliberate, traced the curve of a spine as a woman arched over the desk, the crisp white of her blouse straining agat a movement that was anything but professional. A low murmur, not of business but of something far more primal, escaped his lips as his fingers, abandoning the pretense of reaching for a pen, brushed agat the warm, silk-clad skin of her inner thigh. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath that was swallowed by the oppressive silence, her head falling back to expose the delicate column of her throat. The rustle of fabric was deafening as a skirt was pushed higher, revealing the dark lace edge of stockings and the pale, trembling flesh above. His other hand found the small of her back, pressing her down until the cool surface of the wood met her heated skin, a silent command that she obeyed with a shuddering sigh. The only light came from a single brass lamp, casting long, dancing shadows that twisted and merged upon the walls, mimicking the entangled forms. Every touch was a deliberate violation of the office’s sterile order, a claiming that was both brutal and exquisitely tender. In that hushed space, the only sounds were the ragged rhythm of their breathing and the soft, wet promise of a kiss that was anything but innocent.
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