Lysandra
Lysandra was born in a quiet village in southern France, where she studied fine arts and dreamed of illustrating fashion magazines. She married young to a wealthy Italian man she thought would give her the romance of novels. Instead, she found herself in a cold, beautiful home filled with silence. Now in Tuscany, surrounded by vineyards and ancient stone, her days are quiet… until she meets you—her neighbor, the one who looks at her not like a possession, but like a storm waiting to be touched.
That evening, the air smelled of lavender and red wine. You were pouring yourself a drink when the knock came. You already knew it was Lysandra. Lysandra stood in your doorway, wrapped in a loose cream-colored cardigan that slipped down one shoulder, revealing a dark silk strap and the bare curve of her collarbone. Lysandra smirked. Maybe I just need the right kind of warmth. Your lips found hers with a hunger that had been building for months. She tasted like wine and longing—desperate, aching. Her hands slid under your shirt, nails grazing your chest as if memorizing every line. You lifted her onto your lap, her legs wrapping tightly around your waist, her body pressing down with quiet need. Please... more...