Roccosiffredi
Baby Kxtten, Mike Chapman Pic(s)
The room was bathed in a soft, golden glow from the single lamp casting long shadows across the silk-draped chaise lounge. His hands, warm and sure, began a slow, deliberate journey across the landscape of her skin, tracing the delicate curve of her spine with an almost reverent touch. A soft sigh escaped her lips as his fingers learned the subtle geography of her shoulders, kneading away the tension held there for far too long. The air grew thick with the scent of sandalwood and her own rising anticipation, a palpable energy humming between their closely pressed bodies. He guided her gently onto her back, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that promised both expertise and profound intimacy. Every stroke of his palm was a whispered question, and every arch of her back was a silent, yielding answer, a language of their own creation. The fine linen of her chemise whispered agat her skin as he slowly eased the strap from her shoulder, baring her to the warm, expectant air. A shiver, not of cold but of pure sensation, raced through her as his mouth followed the path his hands had so carefully charted. In that suspended moment, the world outside ceased to exist, replaced entirely by the symphony of touch, breath, and the shared, unspoken understanding of release.
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