Zerotolerancefilms
Sammy Cruz, Sascha Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, heavy with the scent of his expensive cologne and the faint, primal aroma of his skin. His gaze was a tangible weight, a slow, deliberate caress that traveled from the vulnerable curve of my neck down to my trembling hands. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped him, a sound that vibrated deep within my own chest, promising both comfort and conquest. He moved closer, the fine wool of his suit brushing agat my bare arm, each fiber a whisper of his impending dominance. His fingers, strong and sure, traced the line of my jaw, tilting my face up to meet the stormy intensity in his eyes. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, a furnace that promised to melt every last reservation I desperately clung to. His thumb brushed my lower lip, a silent command that parted them with a soft, involuntary sigh. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the intoxicating power play shimmering in the space between our almost-touching bodies. In that suspended moment, the only question that mattered was not who he was, but what he was going to do next.
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