Diabolic
Ava Sinclaire, Mike Mancini Pic(s)
The worn leather of the armchair sighed under his weight as he settled, the scent of old books and faint cologne rising like a ghost from the fabric. Her gaze traced the deliberate path of his hand, the slow, purposeful unbuttoning of his cuff, the reveal of sun-weathered skin and a dusting of dark hair along his wrist. Each movement was a quiet lesson in control, a silent language she was desperate to learn. The air grew thick, charged with the unspoken history that hummed between them, a current that pulled her closer across the Persian rug. She watched the way his thumb stroked the folded linen, a hypnotic rhythm that made her own pulse flutter in response. The low light caught the silver at his temples and glinted in the deep, knowing pools of his eyes, which held hers with an intensity that felt both possessive and approving. A single, slow smile touched his lips, not quite reaching them fully, a promise and a challenge woven into that subtle curve. It was an invitation to cross the final, invisible boundary, to trade her uncertainty for the heat of his approval. In that suspended moment, the only thing she desired was to feel the imprint of his authority on her skin, a tangible answer to every silent question she had ever asked.
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