Roccosiffredi
Miyabi, Rocco Siffredi, Raul Costa Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of old paper and anticipation, a heady perfume that made every breath feel significant. Her skin, pale as moonlight on silk, seemed to absorb the warm glow from the single lamp, each curve and hollow cast into soft relief. His gaze was a physical weight, tracing the delicate line of her collarbone down to the gentle swell of her breast, a journey of silent approval. A single bead of sweat traced a slow, deliberate path between her shoulder blades, a tiny testament to the heat building within the quiet space. She arched her back ever so slightly, a wordless offering that made the thin fabric of her shift cling to the damp small of her back. His low murmur of appreciation was not a sound but a vibration that traveled through the floorboards and up through the soles of her bare feet. The world narrowed to this single moment, to the whisper of cotton as she moved, to the dark, focused intensity in his eyes that promised something more. Every nerve ending felt alive, humming with a current that was part fear, part exhilaration, and wholly intoxicating. This was not just being seen; it was being known, unraveled and appreciated in the most primal, exquisite way.
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