Roccosiffredi
Martina Smeraldi, Liya Silver, Erik Everhard Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick and still, charged with the metallic scent of old co and the sweet, cloying perfume of cheap body spray. He watched her from the corner, his gaze a physical weight tracing the delicate line of her jaw down to the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips as he closed the distance, the worn floorboards silent beneath his careful steps. His fingers, cool and deliberate, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, the contact sending an unwelcome shiver through her frame. She could feel the hard, unyielding pressure of his body as he pressed her agat the peeling wallpaper, the pattern imprinted on her bare back. The only sound was the ragged intake of her own breath, a stark contrast to his calm, even exhalation agat her ear. He studied the dilation of her pupils, a dark pool of fear he found infinitely more captivating than any feigned affection. This was not a negotiation but a claiming, a silent, violent transaction of power that required no words. In the heavy quiet, the world narrowed to the sharp promise in his touch and the terrifying thrill of his complete control.
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