Roccosiffredi
Sheryl X, Joss Lescaf Pic(s)
The warm, amber-scented oil trickled slowly between her shoulder blades, his palm following its path with a pressure that felt like a conversation. His fingers, knowing and deliberate, traced the delicate wings of her scapulae as if reading forgotten braille. A low hum vibrated through the quiet room, a sound of pure concentration that resonated deep within her own bones. Every stroke was a slow, deliberate exploration, kneading away the rigid history held captive in her muscles. She felt her breath synchronize with the rhythm of his hands, each exhalation a release of tension into the heated air. His thumbs found the sacred valley of her spine, pressing in a way that made her arch involuntarily, a silent offering. The world narrowed to this tactile symphony, the slick heat of his skin agat hers, the whisper of cotton sheets. A single droplet of sweat traced a path down his temple, catching the low light before falling, a tiny punctuation to their shared intensity. In this suspended moment, there was only the map of her body and his patient, unraveling touch.
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