My curves speak a soft, slow, made to be discovered without hurry. I walk rhythm, letting my body tell stories without the need for words. My lips invite, my eyes promise. Dark hair falls free on my back, getting tangled up with looks that do not dare to depart. I don't cause, I'm simply. A mixture of calm and fire, of tenderness wrapped in desire. When I approach, I don't play: whisper. And when I move away, I leave the echo of what could be. It makes me happy a good conversation, gentlemen, good treatment and men who understand the delicacy with which I must be treated as a woman. I do not like ill -treatment, that you sabote my room or that you ask me to do something without sending me the payment.