Gabriella Cox arrived with a black dress that spoke for her: mystery, desire, power. Everyone looked at her. She, as if not noticed, moved with a grace that burned the air. He stopped in front of him. He chose it. "Do you like to look?" He whispered, centimeters from his mouth. He nodded, unable to hide it. Gabriella smiled, turned, and still looking at him over her shoulder, slid a strip of her dress, just letting see skin. "Say me," he said, and disappeared in the shadows. That night, there was no talk of anything but the fire after the closed door.

Gabriella Cox didn't need words. It was enough to enter a room for the watches to stop. His curves were perfect, sculpted by gods with intention: narrow waist, wide hips, legs that promised perdition. The red dress that I wore that night did not leave the imagination much ... but enough to go crazy. The men did not see her. They worshiped her. Each step of his was a provocation, each gesture an invisible caress. Some bit their lips. Others did not know what to do with their hands. And one ... one dared to approach. "Do you know what you cause?" He asked, stunned. Gabriella looked at him from top to bottom and approached so much that his breasts almost touched his chest. "I know exactly what caused ..." he whispered, "and you haven't seen anything yet." He wiped him and moved away, leaving behind the aroma of his perfume ... and an erection impossible to hide.

They said Gabriella Cox didn't dance ... His body was a melody in himself. Each movement, every hip turn, was a poem that was written about the skin of those who looked at it. When he took the stage, the air stopped. Breathing became a privilege. That night, with his dark corset and lace stockings, he danced to the rhythm of a slow jazz, feline. I didn't touch anyone, but they all felt it. A wave of desire toured the place, like a silent echo that was squeezed in the chest, in the belly, in every humid corner of the skin. A man in the front row surrendered first. He did not know if it was the warehouse of his hips or the way his eyes naked him from afar. The truth is that his body trembled, defeated by a pleasure he did not understand. Gabriella smiled. I was used to causing unpaid orgasms. His was not a dance. It was pure magic.

The office was silent. Only the murmur of the clock broke the calm of the afternoon. Gabriella Cox opened the door without making noise. He had no more than a long satin coat ... and underneath, pure intention: red lingerie, fine lace, leagues that held the desire, and heels that marked each step as a beat. He leaned on the desk, crossed his legs slowly and waited. When his beloved entered, time stopped. He closed the door without saying a word, as if he understood that he had entered a different world, one created only by and for her. "I was waiting for you ..." Gabriella said, releasing his coat's belt, letting him fall to the ground like a petal. Red, burning, irresistible. He didn't move. He only looked at her, tied by fire. Gabriella approached, set up her lap with the grace of a queen, and whispered in her ear: "Today ... you just look." And then, if you behave well, I may let you touch.