Roccosiffredi
Lily Blossom, Francis X Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of warm paper and expensive perfume, a heady mixture that clung to the skin. Beneath the sterile glow of the desk lamp, silk whispered agat stockinged thighs as a skirt was slowly hitched higher. A sharp intake of breath cut through the hum of the computer, followed by the soft, wet sound of a kiss pressed to a pulse point racing at the base of a throat. Fingers, trembling slightly, traced the delicate lace edge of a brassiere, mapping the soft, yielding flesh beneath the constricting fabric. The world outside the glass walls dissolved into a blur of distant city lights, forgotten in the intimate shadow cast by a towering leather chair. A low, throaty moan escaped as a hand slid lower, exploring the damp heat gathering at the junction of trembling legs. The polished mahogany desk, usually a bastion of order, now bore the weight of a body arching in surrender, its cool surface a shocking contrast to flushed skin. Every rustle of clothing, every shared gasp, was a secret symphony played just for them, a clandestine rhythm building towards an inevitable, shattering release. In this sanctuary of sin, professional decorum was utterly discarded, leaving only raw, unfiltered desire pulsing in the dim light.
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