Zerotolerancefilms
Alaura Eden, Mark Wood, Mark Davis Pic(s)
The air in the room grew thick, charged with the unspoken command that radiated from his stillness. His gaze, dark and heavy with intent, traced a slow, possessive path from the curve of my shoulder down to the trembling pulse at my wrist. A single, deliberate step forward closed the distance, his shadow enveloping me in a warmth that promised both sanctuary and surrender. The scent of him, clean linen and something deeply masculine, filled my lungs, making my head spin with a dizzying anticipation. His knuckles, rough yet infinitely gentle, brushed agat my jawline, tilting my face up to meet the smoldering heat in his eyes. A low murmur, more vibration than word, rumbled from his chest, a sound that bypassed thought and coiled directly in the pit of my stomach. My breath hitched as his thumb swept across my lower lip, parting them with a pressure that was both a question and an answer. Every nerve ending awoke, singing a desperate hymn as his other hand settled firmly on the small of my back, pulling my body flush agat the hard, unyielding line of his. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the space where our skin met, a silent testament to the power he wielded with such effortless control.
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