Zerotolerancefilms
Naudia Rio, Ben English Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken with the scent of his cologne, a dark blend of leather and bergamot that clung to my skin like a possessive promise. His knuckles, rough and calloused from a life I could only imagine, traced a slow, deliberate path down the curve of my spine, each vertebra a tiny altar beneath his touch. A low, guttural murmur vibrated agat my ear, not forming words but conveying a primal question that made my knees weaken. My breath hitched as his other hand settled firmly on my hip, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh just above the bone, a silent demand for surrender. The fine wool of his suit jacket brushed my cheek, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his powerful frame, and I felt the hard ridge of his belt buckle press agat my stomach. Every rational thought dissolved into the sensation of his lips ghosting along my jawline, a feather-light torment that promised something far less gentle. My fingers curled into the starched fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart, a drumbeat commanding my own to follow. He shifted his weight, pressing me back agat the cool wall, the unyielding strength of his body caging me in, a delicious prison from which I had no desire to escape. In that suspended moment, with his dominance an undeniable force and my submission a willing offering, the only identity that mattered was the one he bestowed upon me with his commanding presence.
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