Roccosiffredi
Veronica Clark, Mr. Big Fat Dick Pic(s)
The air crackled with ancient power as she stepped from the temporal rift, her form shimmering into existence within the grand hall of her enemy. Her skin, pale as moonlight, hummed with the raw energy of centuries she had traversed, every inch of her feeling the potent thrum of long-awaited retribution. He stood frozen, a goblet halfway to his lips, his eyes widening not in fear but in a sudden, primal recognition of the sensual storm he had unleashed. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips as she moved, the silken whisper of her dark gown a phantom caress agat the cold stone floor. She could feel the heat of his gaze upon her, a tangible pressure that traced the curve of her hip and the swell of her breast, stoking the inner fire of her magic. With a mere flicker of her will, the very air grew heavy with the scent of ozone and night-blooming jasmine, an intoxicating perfume that promised both pleasure and ruin. Her fingers, delicate yet charged with immeasurable force, reached out to ghost along the line of his jaw, and a shiver—part dread, part desperate yearning—racked his frame. Leaning close, her breath a warm whisper agat his ear, she let him feel the immense, terrible weight of the ages she had endured for this single, intimate moment. This was no mere confrontation; it was a consummation, a final, devastating union of past and present, where vengeance would be a lover’s exquisite, unforgiving kiss.
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