Zerotolerancefilms
Lucy Lee, Jon Dough Pic(s)
The heavy oak door clicked shut with finality, the sound swallowed by the thick Persian rug as he advanced, his shadow stretching long and possessive across the floorboards. Her breath hitched, a tiny, trapped sound, as his knuckles grazed the sensitive skin of her throat, tracing the frantic pulse that beat there like a captured bird. The scent of him, bourbon and clean, starched cotton, filled her senses, a familiar intoxicant that made her knees weaken. His other hand settled firmly on the small of her back, pressing her forward until the hard edge of the desk met her thighs, a silent command she had no will to resist. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, the warmth of his whisper a promise and a threat that coiled deep in her belly. The fine wool of his suit jacket was rough agat her cheek, a stark contrast to the surprising gentleness of his fingers as they began to slowly unfasten the buttons of her blouse. Each release was a small surrender, exposing her skin to the cool, charged air, her nipples tightening in anticipation of his touch. A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated want as he finally cupped the full weight of her breast, his thumb circling the peak with agonizing slowness. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the heat of his palm, the possessive gleam in his eyes, and the thrilling, terrifying certainty that this was only the beginning.
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