I was held in his grasp, my release trembling through me. His own rigid protest strained fiercely, ignored—for now. I recovered enough to meet his eyes again, seeing the unsated demand there, seeing that terrifying, still unsatisfied starvation looking back at me in utterly owned surrender.
He wasn't finished. And looking into those burning amber eyes, I knew I wasn't either. The fear was still there, the disbelief, but they were swallowed by a terrifying, thrilling wave of anticipation.
What else could this feel like? What else could he do to me?
Silence returned, but fear still crackled along my nerves. The door had stopped. Safety resumed—the illusion we both knew we could only barely afford. And he still stared, silently possessive.
Still kneeling. Still worshiping silently, holding the aftershocks of my pulse captive on his lips, feeling the next wave of tension inevitably beginning to rebuild… towards the inevitable crescendo… again and again.
