Zerotolerancefilms
Cassandra, David Perry Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of his cologne and the faint, clean smell of starched cotton from his discarded shirt. His hands, broad and capable, traced a slow, deliberate path down the curve of my spine, each calloused fingertip leaving a trail of fire in its wake. A low, possessive growl rumbled deep within his chest, a sound that vibrated through my own body where we were pressed together. My head fell back in surrender, exposing the vulnerable column of my throat to the heat of his mouth, his stubble a delicious abrasion agat my sensitive skin. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the overwhelming pressure of his thigh between mine and the commanding weight of his gaze holding me captive. Every whispered truction from his lips was a silken command, weaving a spell of complete submission that I willingly embraced. I could feel the powerful rhythm of his heart hammering agat my own, a frantic, synchronized drumbeat echoing in the silent, shadowed room. The taste of him, of salt and whiskey and pure, unadulterated dominance, was a heady intoxicant on my tongue as I yielded completely. This was not a question but a declaration, an unspoken understanding of power and surrender that left me breathless and utterly claimed.
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