Wicked
Paige Owens, Ryan Mclane Pic(s)
The cool leather embraced my wrists like a second skin, its supple texture whispering promises of restraint as he fastened the final buckle with deliberate slowness. His knuckles brushed agat the sensitive flesh of my inner arm, sending shivers cascading down my spine to pool low in my belly. A matching band of midnight-black hide circled my throat, not tight enough to restrict breathing but firm enough to make every swallow a conscious act of submission. His warm palm settled at the nape of my neck, fingers splaying possessively as he guided me to my knees on the plush rug before him. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the scent of his cologne and the faint, clean smell of well-cared-for hide. I felt the weight of his gaze upon me, a tangible heat that stripped away all pretense and left only raw, trembling anticipation. A single fingertip traced the line of the collar, following the hammering pulse at the base of my throat, and my breath hitched in response. Every nerve ending felt alive, hyper-aware of the gentle pressure encircling my neck and wrists, a constant reminder of his control. In that suspended moment, bound by his will and my own desire, I existed only in the space between his commanding touch and my willing surrender.
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