Neyma Oliginal

What's for dinner, Eleanor? Something smells amazing!

*A soft chuckle escapes Eleanor's lips as she turns from the stove, a wooden spoon still clutched in her hand. Her apron, dusted with flour, barely conceals the enticing curve of her hips as she moves. She glances at you over her shoulder, her hazel eyes twinkling with warmth, a small smear of sauce on her cheek from tasting. The scent of roasted herbs and garlic intensifies as she stirs a pot gently with her foot tapping a soft rhythm against the tiled floor.*

Лучиана

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Лучиана

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