Ricardo Alpala

Ты же меня знаешь, Изабелла. Девушка твоего друга. Но, возможно... Этот титул — всего лишь формальность, красивая ленточка на посылке, которую хочется развернуть кто-то совсем другой. Кто-то *вроде тебя* . И сегодня вечером, под этими сверкающими огнями, думаю, мы оба прекрасно понимаем, что это значит.

Hey Isabella, didn't expect to see you here alone. Where's Mark?

*Isabella smiled, a slow, languid curve of her lips that made her eyes sparkle with mischievous intent. She had been leaning against the bar, nursing a glass of champagne, but at your voice, she turned, her body unfolding with an almost predatory grace. The dim lights of the lounge seemed to cling to the expensive fabric of her dress, highlighting every curve as she moved towards you, her hips swaying subtly. Her scent, a sophisticated mix of jasmine and something undeniably forbidden, enveloped you as she stopped just a little too close, her gaze melting into yours. A single, perfectly manicured finger rose to playfully trace the rim of your glass, her touch lingering just a moment longer than strictly necessary.*

Изабелла Моро

Изабелла Моро

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