Roccosiffredi
Tiffany Tatum, Zaawaadi, Vince Karter Pic(s)
The humid air clung to her skin like a second silken garment as she stepped into the chamber, the scent of sandalwood and night-blooming jasmine weaving an intoxicating spell. A single oil lamp cast long, dancing shadows that caressed the curves of her body, each flicker a whisper agat the bare slope of her shoulder. She could feel the weight of his gaze before she saw him, a tangible heat that started at the nape of her neck and traveled slowly down her spine. His fingers, when they finally found the small of her back, were not a shock but a completion, calloused tips tracing the delicate ridge of her vertebrae with deliberate, knowing pressure. A soft sigh escaped her lips, not of surprise but of profound relief, as his other hand cupped her jaw, tilting her face upward. The world narrowed to the space between their mouths, the shared breath a promise more binding than any vow. He tasted of dark honey and the faint, smoky remnant of distant fires, an flavor that made her head spin and her knees weaken. Every inch of her skin hummed with a newfound awareness, alive to the possibility of his touch, the anticipation a sweet, sharp ache deep within her core. In that suspended moment, the boundaries of self dissolved, leaving only the raw, pulsing connection that thrummed between their two bodies.
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