In the sun-drenched villa, a woman lay on a chaise longue, her body a testament to physical perfection. Her skin was a golden hue, glistening with a sheen of sweat from the midday heat. Her breasts were full and firm, the nipples dark and inviting. A cascade of brunette hair spilled over her shoulders, framing her face like a work of art.
Her name was Isabella, a woman of 28 summers, and she was the object of desire for many. Yet, she was alone, her husband away on business, leaving her to her own devices. She reveled in the solitude, the freedom to explore her own body without shame or judgment.
She traced a finger over her collarbone, down to the valley between her breasts. She cupped them, her fingers teasing her nipples, feeling them harden under her touch. She closed her eyes, her breath hitching as she imagined a lover’s touch, a tongue tracing the same path her finger had just taken.
She slid a hand down her stomach, to the apex of her thighs. She was already wet, her body ready for the pleasure it craved. She began to stroke herself, her fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles. She moaned, her body arching off the chaise longue as the pleasure built within her.
Suddenly, she stilled. She had heard a sound, a soft footfall on the terracotta tiles. She opened her eyes, her heart pounding in her chest. Standing in the doorway was a man, his body as perfect as hers. He was tall, with chiseled features and a body that spoke of hours spent in the gym. His eyes were dark, his gaze intense.
She knew who he was. He was the gardener, a man of 30 summers, named Dante. She had seen him around the villa, had even exchanged a few words with him. But she had never looked at him in the way she was looking at him now.
