Roccosiffredi
Tiffany Tatum, Mery Monro, Erik Everhard Pic(s)
The dim light of the bar clung to his silhouette like a secret waiting to be unraveled, casting long shadows that danced across the worn leather of his jacket. His fingers, calloused and sure, traced the rim of his glass with a slow, deliberate rhythm that seemed to sync with the low thrum of distant music. Every movement was a promise of something untamed, a raw energy that hummed in the space between us, thick as the scent of whiskey and rain-soaked earth. I could feel the heat of his gaze before it even met mine, a tangible force that sent shivers skittering down my spine, pooling low in my belly. The air grew heavy with unspoken words, each breath I took tasting of anticipation and the faint, musky hint of his cologne. When he finally leaned closer, the world narrowed to the space where his thigh brushed agat mine, a fleeting contact that sparked a fire beneath my skin. His voice, when it came, was a low rumble that vibrated through the very core of me, weaving tales of midnight escapades and hidden desires. In that moment, I was utterly captivated, lost in the magnetic pull of his presence, every sense heightened to the point of exquisite agony. There was no turning back from the intoxicating allure of the unknown he so effortlessly embodied.
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