Roccosiffredi
Fanta Sie, Lorenzo Viota, Francis X, Alex Charger Pic(s)
The forgotten pen rolled slowly across the polished mahogany, its path a silent testament to the sudden stillness in the office after hours. Her breath hitched as his fingers, having abandoned the keyboard, traced the delicate line of her collarbone, a whisper of contact that sent a shiver cascading down her spine. The scent of his cologne, a dark spice mingled with the faint, clean aroma of toner, filled the space between them, an intoxicating fog that clouded all professional pretense. She felt the cool, smooth surface of the desk press agat her lower back as he leaned in, his warmth a stark contrast to the inert furniture. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips when his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, a promise of a touch yet to come. The dim glow from the computer monitor painted his features in shifting hues of blue and white, highlighting the intense focus in his gaze that was now solely for her. Every rustle of her silk blouse as it shifted felt amplified in the profound quiet, a symphony of anticipation building in the shadowy room. The world outside the large window, a panorama of distant city lights, blurred into ignificance agat the palpable electricity arcing between them. In that suspended moment, the only reality was the thrilling, unspoken confession hanging in the air, a secret desire finally acknowledged without a single word.
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