Evilangel
Zaawaadi, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The room hummed with a low, anticipatory energy, thick with the scent of warm bodies and polished leather. His gaze was a physical weight, a slow, deliberate appraisal that traveled from the arch of a foot to the vulnerable curve of a throat. Every nerve ending sparked to life under that silent scrutiny, a flush of heat blooming just beneath the skin. Fingers, calloused and sure, traced the line of a collarbone, a touch so light it was almost a memory, yet it sent a shiver cascading down the spine. The air grew heavy, charged with unspoken promises and the sharp, metallic tang of desire. A low murmur, more vibration than sound, rumbled from his chest, a primal language that bypassed thought and spoke directly to the blood. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the intoxicating slide of skin agat skin, a friction that promised both friction and release. Muscles tensed and relaxed in a slow, involuntary dance, a surrender to the exquisite torment of being so completely seen, so thoroughly known. In the profound quiet, broken only by the ragged rhythm of shared breath, an entire universe of sensation unfolded, inevitable and profound.
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