Verocollins

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Her mere presence has something of a slow burn, of contained desire that burns without permission. She's the kind of woman who doesn't need to show much to provoke fantasies impossible to ignore. Her thing isn't shouting, but whispering... with a glance, a crooked laugh, an accidental touch that lingers on your skin long after it's gone. Every movement has rhythm, cadence... as if she's walking to the beat of a song only she knows. I love those words that are like the smell of smoke: sweet, but with a dangerous promise behind them. She can't stand anything boring, predictable, or dull. He flees from easy love and unintentional caresses.