Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404
His deep blue eyes, wide with a mixture of shock and fervent admiration, were locked onto me. A villainess doesn’t beg. She commands. That primal scent, a mix of leather and something else entirely, intensified. His earlier indignation had vanished, replaced by an unmistakable hunger. He was no longer the man about to call the authorities; he was merely a man. A man caught in the web I had so carefully, so deliberately, spun.
I straightened slowly, the motion deliberate, the ripped catsuit revealing just enough, yet leaving the rest to his imagination – or perhaps, his memory. The stiletto heels clicked again as I turned, a slow pivot that allowed the light to glide across the gleaming patent leather, across the exposed curve. I didn’t need to speak. The silence was louder than any words. It was filled with the thrum of his heartbeat, the rapid, shallow breaths he couldn’t quite control.
A villainess doesn’t beg
He took a hesitant step forward, then another, drawn like a moth to a very bright light. This was the moment. The script had been discarded, the power dynamic irrevocably shifted. I wasn’t just playing a role; I was embodying it, owning the predacious gleam in my eyes, the coiled power in my stance. The “catch” had become the caught.
He never did call anyone. He simply walked right into my embrace, into the trap I had conjured, where the villainess was the only one holding the reins. It was a dance, a particular kind of theatre we had perfected over time, where the audience of one was entirely at the mercy of the performer. And in that moment, under the low hum of the study lights, with the scent of old books and raw desire mingling in the air, I was exactly where I wanted to be: utterly, thrillingly, in charge of him.
Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404
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