Roccosiffredi
Cecilia Scott, Chad Rockwell, John Price Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick with the scent of warm skin and whispered promises, a heavy anticipation that clung to the two figures entwined on the silk-draped bed. His hands, large and knowing, traced a slow, deliberate path from the gentle curve of one woman’s hip to the arch of the other’s back, mapping the landscape of their desire. A soft sigh escaped the first, her head tilting back as his lips found the sensitive hollow of her throat, while the second pressed closer, her fingers tangling in his hair with a possessive urgency. The only light came from a single lamp, casting long, dancing shadows that merged their bodies into a single, shifting form agat the wall. He moved between them with a confident grace, his mouth leaving a trail of fire down one spine as his fingers coaxed a tremble from the other’s thigh. Their responses were a symphony of gasps and low moans, a language of pure sensation that needed no words, each touch building upon the last in a rising tide of heat. The slide of skin agat skin became a slick, rhythmic counterpoint to their ragged breathing, a primal music that filled the quiet space. He guided them, and they guided him, a perfect triangle of shared pleasure where every glance was a command and every shuddering breath a surrender. In that suspended moment, nothing existed beyond the electric connection of their three bodies, a union of flesh and fervor burning brightly in the intimate dark.
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