Zerotolerancefilms
Emily Davinci, Mark Wood Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of his expensive cologne and the primal heat rising from your skin. His gaze, dark and possessive, held you captive as his knuckles traced a deliberate, feather-light path from your temple down the line of your jaw. A low, approving rumble vibrated in his chest when your breath hitched, a sound that promised both command and reward. His other hand settled firmly on the small of your back, pulling your body flush agat the hard, unyielding plane of his, erasing any last pretense of distance. You could feel the powerful rhythm of his heart thudding agat your own, a frantic drumbeat answering the silent question hanging between you. His lips found the sensitive hollow of your throat, not with a kiss, but with the slow, warm pressure of his mouth, branding you with his presence. Every nerve ending sang with a desperate awareness, your world narrowing to the scratch of his stubble and the intoxicating weight of his dominance. A shuddering sigh escaped you as his fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the column of your neck in a gesture of pure, willing surrender. In that suspended moment, there was no past or future, only the overwhelming present and the profound, unspoken understanding of who held absolute power over your pleasure.
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