A mature man knows what he wants—and it shows in the way he looks at you, slowly but intentionally. He doesn't need excessive words; the way he moves closer, how he places his firm hand on your waist, how he guides you with confidence and desire. He understands rhythm, timing, the secret of the right touch. He knows how to explore every detail of you with deep attention, like someone savoring a rare pleasure. And when he kisses you, it's with that perfect blend of calm and intensity that only someone who has lived a long life knows how to offer… A mature man doesn't guess: he perceives. He doesn't try to impress: he captivates. And when he wants you, you feel it—in your whole body.

I feel your breath warming the air between us, and then I press my lips to your neck—first a soft touch, almost a warning, then a firmer, lingering kiss that makes you tilt your head and offer me even more.

Time seems to hold its breath when our lips draw near—as if the whole world were silently waiting for the moment when we finally kiss.

In the dark cave, the silence takes on a temperature. The air is dense, almost palpable, as if each shadow breathed along with the desire that is born there. The cold stone around contrasts with the heat that awakens within, making the body listen to its own instincts. #pussy

The embrace that soothes, the love that strengthens, sensitivity as strength, not weakness. Allow yourself to be seen for your most sensitive side.

I open the door slowly, feeling the warmth of your space envelop me even before I see you. The soft light of the room welcomes me as if it were already expecting me. I enter with slow steps, letting the sound of my heels announce my arrival—each touch on the floor carrying the intention of someone who has come for you. The air smells of you. And that already brings me closer than I'd like to admit. I close the door behind me, and for a moment I stand there, leaning against it, observing you. My lips curve into a slow smile, the kind that only appears when I know exactly the effect I'm having. "I'm here…" I say, my voice low, almost an invitation. I walk towards you with the lightness of someone who wants to be touched, felt, noticed. My fingers brush against the wall, then the back of the sofa, until they finally stop on you. My body leans in slightly, bringing my perfume closer to your skin, as if Friday were beginning precisely with this encounter—warm, soft, inevitable. I stand there, close by, looking into your eyes, as if saying without haste: Now it's our turn.