Evilangel
Liberta Black, Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick and still, heavy with the scent of warm skin and anticipation. His gaze, dark and unwavering, traveled over the curve of her shoulder with the deliberate focus of a man who knew how to look. A single bead of sweat traced a slow, glistening path down the hollow of her throat, and he watched its journey as if it were the most important story ever told. His thumb, calloused and surprisingly gentle, followed the same path, smudging the moisture into her feverish skin. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her lips, a sigh that was part surrender and part invitation, echoing softly in the quiet space. He leaned in, his breath a warm caress agat her ear, whispering words meant only for her, promises that coiled deep in her belly. The world outside the window, the city lights and distant traffic, faded into an indistinct blur, irrelevant. Every sense was heightened, every touch amplified, until the space between them crackled with a palpable, electric current. In that suspended moment, there was nothing but the shared, breathless discovery unfolding in the intimate silence.
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