Wifeys Dream House and BBC

Touchmywife

Demi Diveena, Jay Bangher Pic(s)

The heavy oak door swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a cavernous foyer where moonlight streamed through a vast window, painting silver stripes across the dark hardwood floor. Her breath hitched as a powerful silhouette detached itself from the deeper shadows, a presence that seemed to absorb the very light around it. The air grew thick, charged with the scent of sandalwood and night-blooming jasmine from the garden beyond. He moved with a predator’s grace, each step a silent promise that made her skin prickle with anticipation. His hands, when they finally settled on her waist, were surprisingly warm, their broad span sending a jolt of pure heat straight to her core. She could feel the solid strength of him, a wall of muscle and intent, as he drew her close until the fine silk of her robe whispered agat the rough texture of his trousers. A low murmur, more vibration than word, rumbled from his chest and traveled through her own, a primal language that bypassed all thought. Her head fell back in surrender, offering the pale column of her throat to the possessive descent of his mouth. In that suspended moment, the house itself seemed to hold its breath, a silent witness to the beginning of a long-awaited claiming.