It takes all of her strength not to reach out to him.
It takes every ounce of her self-control not to arch up to meet the hand adorned by the crisp, white cuff and platinum link, not to give her body over to his touch familiar and new, possessing and sweet. It takes all of her restraint, all of her will not to give in to the urge to trail her slender fingers over the smoothness of the gleaming leather, to run her hands up along the warmth radiating through the charcoal wool, to map the muscular calves, the tensing thighs, to tease and stroke then devour the throbbing hardness nestled between his legs, to splay herself, open herself, reveal her fiery brightness to the flesh that perfects her. It takes everything she has, everything she is not to instinctively surrender to the passions, the impulses, the carnality this man inspires with little effort and action.
It takes everything, all things, this desire for him. It takes, it strips, it breaks, it pieces her together again.
(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players…)